


The Midwife - Arc I

by MagnoliasInBloom



Category: Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-08-02 02:04:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 23,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16296188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagnoliasInBloom/pseuds/MagnoliasInBloom
Summary: Following in her mother’s footsteps, Claire’s skills as a midwife take her to France and Scotland. When her journey leads her to James Fraser, she will have to decide if she will follow her calling or her heart.





	1. Chapter 1

The linens were soaked in sweat and blood. Maman crouched by the fire, wrapping a lifeless bundle which she then laid next to the inert body on the bed. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the sight—the laird’s wife, her skin icy cold, head thrown back in an agony long since ended. Her soul, gone. Her screams still echoed in the smoky beams overhead.

 

“Claire.” The sound of my name ripped me from my thoughts, and I took the basin Maman offered me. “Take this, dump it outside. I must speak with the laird.”

 

I trundled carefully down the stairs, willing myself not to spill a single drop. The basin was full of bloodied water and the afterbirth, covered by a towel. Only Maman and I should know what was in it.

 

I pushed the door to the kitchen open with my foot, and was surprised to see two figures at the kitchen table. An untouched plate of ginger cookies sat in front of them, a copper-haired boy and a raven-haired girl, who held each other tightly. They looked at me as I entered, pale-faced and white-lipped, afraid of the knowledge I possessed.

 

“Mam…” The girl stood up, still holding her brother’s hand. “Is she…”

 

I gave her a pitying look. Janet—I remembered her name now—took in my appearance; my hair neatly covered by a cap, clean hands, and a horribly stained apron.

 

“The babe was stillborn. I’m sorry.” I offered no more words, walking to the kitchen door to dump the contents of the basin in the yard. The water made a bright red arc as it splashed. The rest I buried quickly under the nearest tree, as was custom. I returned to the door as I heard my own mother’s footsteps approach.

 

“Children, your father would like to see you in his study.” Maman grasped Janet by the shoulders. “You are the lady of the house now, child. I will help you.” The girl’s eyes were bright with tears that spilled onto her cheeks. She looked close to my age. The boy bit his lip until blood came, and wiped furiously at his eyes that we might not see him cry.

 

“Claire, see to the tenants, then return as soon as you can,” Maman’s soft French-accented English commanded, and I immediately set out to let the nearest woman from the estate know that Lady Broch Tuarach had died in childbirth. They would all come to help clean the house, cook, and pay their respects to the laird’s wife.

 

* * *

 

Women surrounded the girl Janet as she sat on a chair near her mother’s coffin. They patted and coddled and offered freshly baked bannocks; Janet paid them no heed. Tears streamed silently down her face, which she wiped surreptitiously with an embroidered linen handkerchief. I caught a glimpse of the initials ECF stitched in blue.

 

Behind Janet, Ellen Fraser lay in eternal repose. The women of the estate had quietly murmured in surprise when Brian Fraser, the laird, had released the bright red hair from its plait and arranged it in a wild halo around her head. The longer strands covered the tiny face of the stillborn babe, to rest forever beside his mother.

 

The laird himself was inconsolable, stopping briefly to touch his son’s shoulder and touch his fingers to his daughter’s cheek. He accepted condolences from his tenants, and made sure that food and whiskey were plentiful for all.

 

I observed this grief, recalling my own for my father, Henri. He had met and married Julia Moriston, an Englishwoman, and made her a Beauchamp in France, where she had gone to convent school and had lived for many years. Half-French, half-English, Maman and I traveled as midwives around England, Scotland, and northern France after Papa had died.

 

My mother divided her time between the kitchen, supervising the servants, and talking to the tenants’ wives. After she assured me everything was taken care of, I wandered from room to room, admiring the manor and thinking about what life would be like for the Fraser family from now on.

 

It was then that I spotted the red-haired boy behind the study door, peering into the room that held his mother’s coffin. His eyes were red, but he was seemed calm, until he turned and saw me looking at him. He could not have been more than ten. His lower lip trembled; it was clear he remembered seeing me last night, so I approached him.

 

“Da asked me if I had said farewell to my Mam. I dinna want to,” he said suddenly.

 

I tugged on his coat, straightening the lace jabot at his throat. “Does it frighten you?” I asked softly.

 

He shook his head. “No,” he said fiercely. “’Tis only… if I say goodbye, then she will be truly gone.”

 

“I understand,” I replied. “I lost my own father when I was younger, too.”

 

“Ye did?” He squinted at me, trying to reconcile the image of me as a child. “Did ye greet?”

 

“Of course. It’s natural to feel grief and cry, lad. There’s no shame in it.”

 

He nodded, and I noticed he was manfully trying to suppress his tears at this. I smoothed a hand over his hair—Ellen’s hair—even though he was probably too old for such things.

 

“Here, I’ll go with you, if you like. I think it’s important to say goodbye. Then your Mam’s spirit can rest easy.” I reached out for his hand. We walked slowly towards the coffin, and he dashed away a lone tear with his free hand. I stood by while he touched his mother’s hair briefly, so like his own. He traced the edge of her jaw, when suddenly he threw his arms around my middle in a panic.

 

I led him away from the crowd, so that he would not be embarrassed. I offered him comfort as best I could, thinking about what Maman would do for him.

 

“She’s with the angels now. I can promise you that.”

 

He gripped me tighter and wept against my shoulder, tall for his age. I made small noises, patting his back until he grew calm again. He wiped his eyes, nodded in my direction as he let go, and crept upstairs to the family’s rooms.

 

I watched him go, and realized I didn’t even know his name. He only came back down when the mourners took the coffin out to be buried in the family cemetery, where Ellen and the babe would rest on Fraser land. The priest blessed the clods of earth that pattered onto the wooden box, while Brian, Janet, and the boy clung to each other to stay afloat in their grief.

 

The image of the boy’s red hair waving gently in the cold air would stay with me long after Maman and I had left the estate, in search of healing work or children to deliver.

 

It would be years before I saw him again.


	2. Chapter 2

I wiped my eyes before picking up my skirts and trailing up the steps that led to l’Hôpital des Anges. I tried not to think of Maman doing the same, so many years ago, but it was impossible. The burlap sack that carried all my worldly possessions thumped against my side. Fresh tears slid down my face; I reached the heavy oak doors with black iron rivets and pushed.

 

The smell was what hit me first. That unmistakable odor of sickness, fetid with fear, enveloped me, and I dropped to my knees on the cold stone floor. The ribbon in my hair unraveled and dark curls brushed my neck. I didn’t want to remember, but the memories came anyway.

 

Maman’s cold hand in mine, giving me instructions and advice. “Chérie, go back to Paris. Go to l’Hôpital, say you are mine. Mère Hildegarde will see you safe.” Her voice was rough and low. I clung to her, desperate to do anything in the face of my pain and her illness. Her face turned red while she coughed and choked, as her body tried to rid itself of the phlegm in her lungs. I held a basin near her mouth, should she vomit again. Maman had _la grippe_ , only a touch of ague.

 

This is what I told myself over and over as I nursed her, putting cold cloths on her forehead to combat the fever, camphorated goose grease on her chest to aid the congestion, hot tea with honey for the pain in her throat. Most worrying of all was the incessant coughing that wouldn’t stop, not even while she slept. This gave Maman little rest, and my conscience even less, knowing my mother had seen me safely through my own bout of grippe and now, I could do nothing for the same ailment.

 

Maman’s desire that I should go back to France and undertake an apprenticeship at l’Hôpital des Anges seemed nothing more than the vagaries of a fever-addled mind. If I went, it would mean Maman was dead, and I had nowhere else to go. I refused to accept it, shaking my head as my mother’s voice grew weaker in her entreaties. I probably caused her great distress in her last moments, and I regretted that most of all. I hadn’t known she would not endure the night—the silence that meant her struggle was over was what had woken me, the deathly stillness of the air when she was coughing no longer. I had dozed off for a few moments, just a little sleep…

 

Maman was gone, and now I was here, just as she had wished. I would become a fully trained midwife, just as she had done and my grandmother before me. I already had years of experience, at twenty-one years old, but the midwives at l’Hôpital were the best. Aided by French doctors who donated generously of their time, some medical knowledge was highly valued in a midwife. I would become the best I could be, and honor Maman’s memory.

 

 _“Bonjour, êtes-vous malade? Qu’est-ce qui ce passe_?” A kindly voiced emerged from the stone hallway beyond the doors, and a thin white hand appeared before my eyes. I looked up into the face of a pretty nun in black robes. Her eyes matched her voice, and I was immediately put at ease. I grasped her hand and pulled myself up, brushing at my skirts.

 

 _“Non, je suis pas malade, merci. Je cherche Mère Hildegarde; je voudrais parler avec elle, s’il vous plaît.”_ I hadn’t spoken French in so long—something pricked in my chest at the sound of it, Papa’s native tongue. “I am here to inquire about an apprenticeship, as a midwife.”

 

Something flickered across her expression. “Of course, this way please.” She gestured beyond the hallway and we went through a low arch. In a few steps we were in an enormous cavernous space, where the cries of the infirm echoed in the ceiling vaults, and the smell of disease intensified.

 

We walked between pallets where the sick and injured lay. I noticed that the people were sectioned off by gauze screens, as much to aid privacy as to prevent contagion. I felt the sister’s eyes on me, and understood that walking through this area was as much a test as my upcoming conversation with the abbess. I returned her gaze, my chin firmly set, and I looked around.

 

There was not much I hadn’t seen before. Most of the physically injured were men; they were bandaged or splinted, stitched or unconscious. I glimpsed few women, and surmised that the midwives’ work took place elsewhere. Maman’s work and mine took us to many places, where clean skilled hands were valued not only in childbirth, but helping to heal in any way we could.

 

My fingers itched to look under some of the dressings, to soothe a fevered brow, or grind herbs in a mortar. Maman had been right to send me here. It remained to be seen whether Mother Hildegarde felt the same.

 

 _“Entrez!”_ A voice called out sharply when the sister rapped on the door. We stepped into a wide circular chamber, where Mère Hildegarde sat behind a carved wooden desk. She stood, folding her hands inside her habit.

 

“ _Ma mère_ , this lady is here to speak with you. She wishes to become a midwife.” The sister gestured to me and backed out the door deferentially.

 

“Hello, child. What is your name?” The abbess was very tall (for a nun, in my mind), and imposing, but her tone was welcoming.

 

“I am Claire Beauchamp. My mother was Julia Moriston. She studied here, at your convent school.”

 

Mother Hildegarde’s eyes widened. “ _Mais oui_ , I remember Julia. She was also a midwife, trained here at l’Hôpital des Anges. I also remember she married and left for England shortly after.”

 

“We lived in London, for a time,” I said, taking a seat when the abbess indicated I could do so. Her face was inscrutable, no beauty; but her eyes, like the other nun’s, were kind, too.

 

“Where are your parents now? Is it their wish that you train as a midwife as well? Or become a novice, perhaps?” Mother Hildegarde asked.

 

I swallowed hard. “No, _ma mère_ , both my parents are… gone.” I held her gaze, a hidden well of strength I didn’t know I possessed rising in me.

 

“I am sorry for your loss, child. Julia was a fine midwife, if I do say so myself. But you, you are of a marriageable age, and still young. Why should you care to train as a midwife, alone as you are?”

 

“I am already a midwife.” I registered the brief surprise in the abbess’s face. “My mother taught me well. After my father’s death, we traveled all over England and Scotland, and occasionally made the journey across the water to France. I’ve been practicing since I was deemed old enough by Maman to take part in this woman’s job.”

 

“It is dangerous for women to travel alone, even those whose skills are in demand.”

 

“We moved around so much because Maman said that as humans, we could only do so much, and the rest was in God’s hands. But if things should go wrong, people in their grief would not hesitate to blame wise-women such as ourselves.”

 

“I see.” She rose and came around the desk to face me directly, and I stood as well, sensing the interview was almost over. “If you already are a midwife, why come to us, child?” Mother Hildegarde’s words were another test

 

“ _Ma_ _mère,_ I _am_ a midwife. But I am here to learn what my mother could not teach me, and honor Maman’s wishes.”

 

Mère Hildegarde paused to consider my words briefly. She seemed to come to a decision and nodded to herself. “You have accomplished the second of these by coming here; we shall endeavor to help you with the first.” She walked to the door and opened it, where the nun from earlier was waiting patiently. “Sister, please take Claire to the novices’ wing and give her a room. I shall see you early tomorrow, child.”

 

“ _Oui_ , _ma_ _mère_. _Merci_.” I curtsied and followed the kind-eyed sister out the door. The nuns lived in the adjoining convent, where I would also be staying.

 

“Claire, is it? I am Sister Angelique.” She led the way down another corridor, leaving the noise and the smell of the sick behind. The soft swish of her robe and the faint clacking of rosary beads on her person was comforting, as was her name.

 

 _Angelique_. I was at l’Hôpital des Anges. Maman was with the angels. Now, I hoped, so was I.


	3. Chapter 3

Sister Madeleine tapped me on the shoulder as I spoon-fed an elderly man lying on a pallet in the main room. Mother Hildegarde had made it clear on my first morning at the Hôpital—so early it was still dark outside—that besides any midwife training I would receive, I was to give of my time in the main room assisting the physicians as well, and tending to the patients’ needs.  

 

“Claire, we need to replenish our stores. Please go to Monsieur Raymond—here’s a list.” Sister Madeleine handed me a basket and a scrap of paper. I traded it for the bowl in my hands as she crouched down to finish my task.

 

Before I left, I washed my hands in a basin where water mixed with vinegar served as disinfectant; all this per the Hôpital’s rules. I remembered Sister Madeleine telling me alcohol was best—which I knew already—but as it was expensive, we made do with vinegar.

 

Stepping out into the October day, I breathed in the relatively fresh Parisian air, with only a tinge of burnt wood and unwashed bodies. I walked on to Rue de Varenne to Monsieur Raymond’s apothecary shop. I was glad of the break in my routine. Fishmongers and shopkeepers peddling their wares crowded the path along my way, some of whom had become familiar to me in the past few months and called out in greeting.

 

I reached the apothecary shop, and glanced at the list from Sister Madeleine. Yarrow, laudanum, fennel, tansy, pennyroyal… I recognized a few of the herbs that Madame de Ramelle used. When troubled women came who could not or did not wish to bear a child, we sent them to her—she was the Hôpital’s angel-maker. I had learned from a young age not to judge women in difficult positions; _there but for God go I,_ Maman had always said.

 

A small bell rang out in welcome as I walked into the cool interior of the shop. The scent of green things and vague perfume reminded me of Maman. I breathed in deep and smiled; this was a place like no other, one of my favorite in Paris, one where I could remember my mother in peace rather than grief.

 

“Maître Raymond! _Bonjour_!” I called out. A stout, short man peeked around a curtain behind the counter and his face broke into a smile.

 

“Madonna!” He took my hand, the one that held the list, and kissed my knuckles. I had given up trying to get him to explain why he called me _madonna_ , since I was neither married nor a mother. “What can I get for you this day?”

 

“Here,” I said, holding out the slip of paper. He perused it with squinted eyes, pulling jars off the shelves behind him. Maître Raymond and I had become fast friends after the first time the sisters had sent me to fetch the herbs we did not grow ourselves in the small plot behind the Hôpital. It had turned out he had been briefly acquainted with my mother as well.

 

“And how are you, Madonna? Anything interesting happening at l’Hôpital?” He began wrapping the herbs in butcher’s paper and twine.

 

“I participated in the debriding of a festering wound the other day,” I said, glancing at the various interesting objects hanging from the walls—animal heads, horns, skins, and bones. “Loads of pus came out, but the doctor attending the man sealed it with honey. No infection! It is truly a miracle.”

 

“Indeed. The Egyptians knew of the properties of honey and used it for many things, Madonna.” He was a self-professed admirer of the “women’s work”, and often aided us with his forays into ancient texts and rediscovery of useful remedies. “I have added some asafoetida for Madame de Ramelle,” Maître Raymond added with a wink. “It is most useful in treating cough, sore throat, fever, indigestion, all sorts of aches and pains. Have some wild carrot too, no extra charge. _C’est tout, chérie?_ ”

 

“Merci, monsieur.” I tucked the packages into my basket.

 

“Watch your step, Madonna. Take care.” He kissed my hand once more, and disappeared behind the curtain.

 

I took a whiff of the basket as I meandered down the rue back to my duties at l’Hôpital. Fresh, spicy and sharp, I was reminded to check on the lavender beds before reporting to Madame Bonheur, the head of the _maîtresses sage femme_. I had stayed up late the previous night with her, when I had gone to help deliver a poor woman’s sixth child. I thought I’d pay the mother a visit to see how she fared when I stumbled on a loose cobblestone and crashed into a solid figure.

 

“ _Ifrinn!_ ” I heard the figure exclaim, as it gripped my waist to keep me from falling. I looked up to see a very tall, red-headed youth staring down at me. Blue cat-eyes met amber, and it took me a minute to find my bearings.

 

“ _Je suis desolée_ ,” I mumbled, and extricated myself from his arms. Several of the apothecary’s packages had fallen out of the basket, and I bent to pick them up. He did the same, and our heads crashed together.

 

“Shit!” I burst out. The force of the blow landed us on our backsides. I reached up to rub the sore spot on my forehead, and I grinned sheepishly. He smiled back.

 

“’Tis not often one hears a lady speak so vehemently,” he said, as he pulled himself up and offered me a hand. I took it and felt two spots burn high on my cheeks. “And in English, no French!” he said. “A sassenach in Paris—never thought I’d see it.” The brightness of his smile told me he didn’t mean _sassenach_ in an insulting way. I had heard the term used often in Scotland referring to Maman and myself on occasion.

 

“Forgive me. I was caught unawares.” I refrained from leaning down lest we bump into each other again; he gallantly retrieved the fallen packages and set them in the basket still dangling from my arm.

 

He made me a leg in courtly fashion, oblivious to the passing traffic of people and carts in the middle of the Rue de Varenne. “I am James Fraser. Your servant, mademoiselle. Please, allow me to walk you home. If only to prevent further misfortune, ye ken?” He grinned.

 

“Claire Beauchamp.” I curtsied briefly. The Scottish lilt to his words brought to mind the rolling hills of the country, and tickled my memory. “Fraser. I knew a family called Fraser, once.” I scrutinized him further, and my mouth fell open. I saw his red hair waving in the wind, almost ten years ago. “Oh, but—it’s you! Your mother, Ellen…” I trailed off.

 

“Ye kent my Mam, mademoiselle?” James’s eyes shone, and gestured for us to walk together, offering me his arm. I hesitated for the briefest moment, then linked my arm through his.

 

“I was there, the night she… died. I helped Maman, she was the midwife.” My voice caught on the past tense, remembering that time. “I was very sorry for your loss. Do you…” I paused. “Do you remember me?”

 

“Yes, ye held me. Ye helped me say goodbye,” he said softly, his arm tightening. “I was—am—grateful for it.” We walked on in companionable silence, until he offered, “I am here for my studies, at the Université. The MacKenzies, my uncles at Leoch in Scotland, they want me to receive an education. Have ye ever been there?”

 

“The Université or Leoch?”

 

“Either,” he said, with a crooked smile.

 

“No. I don’t often have a chance to explore the city—and Maman and I were never at your uncle’s estate, though I heard of it. I’m—I lost my own mother too, a few months ago.” James squeezed my arm in sympathy, hearing the knot in my throat. I felt comforted in our shared grief—one we knew that the passage of time only dimmed, but did not erase.

 

I tugged on his arm to turn a corner, onto Rue de Grenelle. Family members of the men and women who were ill and staying at the hospital crowded the street, and we picked our way among them. I stopped and gave what few sous I could spare to some of them from my skirt pocket. I led James up the stairs to the now familiar oak doors.  

 

“Here. L’Hôpital des Anges.” I gazed up at the imposing façade, and pulled my arm from his. “ _Merci_ , Monsieur Fraser. It was most kind of you to see me safely home.”

 

“Home?” he asked, surprised. “Ye live in the Convent? _A Dhia_ , are ye a novice?” James looked very taken aback, and somewhat regretful. He crossed himself surreptitiously.

 

I laughed. “No, not a novice. I work here, helping the sisters and the _chirurgiens_. I am a midwife. Well, training to be one, at least. Like my mother.”

 

James smiled. “I remember your own mother. She was kind, like you.” He reached out and took a sprig of white-flowered yarrow from the basket. He smelled it and smiled, tucking it into his waistcoat pocket. “A pleasure to make yer acquaintance again, Mademoiselle Beauchamp.” He bowed at the waist and turned to leave.

 

“ _Au revoir_ , Monsieur Fraser.” Before I could close the doors behind me, he called out from the bottom of the steps.

 

“Mistress?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“ _S’il vous-plaît_ , call me Jamie.”


	4. Chapter 4

I held the woman’s shoulders from behind, while Madame Bonheur squatted in front of us. The woman—Louise—was breathing heavily as she gripped the seat of the birthing stool. One of the sisters hovered nearby, towels and hot water at the ready.

 

“Claire, what is the oil I applied on madame’s body?” The _maîtresse sage femme_ asked me as she pushed Louise’s shift further up her body.

 

“Lavender and sage, to calm the mother,” I replied. No moment was too inopportune to teach. I marveled at the use of a birthing stool; it was a tradition still used by rural women, though wives of nobler families had grown accustomed to giving birth lying in bed—thanks to silly Louis XIV. I had always seen firsthand how childbirth was easier and faster on the mother when upright; Maman and I had used wooden blocks ourselves to aid women in this position.

 

“ _Bien. Aidez-nous, poussez!_ ” Madame Bonheur reached between Louise’s legs and turned the baby’s shoulders; with a tremendous push, the baby was released into the midwife’s hands. “Sister Celeste, if you please.” The veiled nun approached and began to rub at the newborn’s body vigorously, while Madame Bonheur hooked her finger inside its mouth, to remove any obstructions, like mucus. The baby began to wail, and I saw it was a boy.

 

“ _Un garçon!_ ” I whispered to Louise, who was still sweating and panting heavily. She smiled briefly, and I called out the news to her family waiting outside their ramshackle apartments. I heard whoops of delight, screeches from her other four children. Sister Celeste tied two strands of string on the baby’s cord, about a handbreadth apart; then she cut between the strings, severing the physical connection between mother and baby. Madame Bonheur laid the baby on Louise’s chest, where she immediately pulled down her shift and offered her breast. Soon, the sound of contented suckling filled the room.

 

I caressed the baby’s head gently, noting the dark shock of hair. It put me in mind of other shades of hair—like red. Jamie Fraser’s presence had been in my mind since our encounter; he flitted in and out of my thoughts, unbidden but unforgettable. I shook my head to clear it.

 

I took my place before Louise, who still sat on the birthing stool. It was my task now to wait for the delivery of the afterbirth. It could take anywhere from five to twenty minutes. I watched the dangling bit of cord shrivel up, and knew it would be fast.

 

“Claire, we will return to l’Hôpital. Send for us if needed,” the _maîtresse sage femme_ told me. Sister Celeste trailed after Madame Bonheur. She had seen by now that I had had previous experience with childbirth, and trusted me to stay behind alone.

 

After mother and child had been put safely abed, I cleaned up and called Louise’s family back inside. They surrounded their mother and new baby brother, debating names and clamoring to be the first to hold him. I smiled at Louise before I left, who nodded tiredly but happily.

 

These were the moments I lived for.

 

* * *

 

“Claire, this is Malva Christie. Malva, you will apprentice alongside Claire.” Sister Angelique introduced me to a pretty young woman, with dark glossy hair and grey eyes. There was some mischievous sparkle hidden in them, and I smiled at the girl.

 

“Welcome. Claire Beauchamp,” I said, nodding my head in greeting. “Will you be staying at the convent too?”

 

“Yes, I—my family lives here in St. Denis. They wish me to be useful,” Malva said, with a clear voice that sounded self-assured.

 

“I’ll leave you to get better acquainted,” said Sister Angelique, tucking her hands inside her robe as she left.

 

“Have you any experience with childbirth?” I gestured towards the hospital’s section reserved for women, and Malva walked alongside me.

 

“No. I am the youngest of two in my family. An older brother—so I’ve never seen Mama bear children, you see.”

 

“Well, you’re in for a surprise. Just remind yourself, the end is worth it.” I thought to myself if Malva were the type to faint at the sight of blood or injuries—as she would also have to serve in the Hôpital’s main room. I led her through the rooms and gardens, pointing out the different areas and their uses. I showed her the cupboard with our herbal stores, where clean linens were kept, all the while discussing our various duties and the rules we had to follow.

 

“Wash our hands in vinegar? Why?” We were at the entrance to the main hospital room, tying on fresh, clean aprons. She seemed surprised at the notion.

 

“It prevents disease from spreading. We must clean our hands before we move on to another patient.” She looked on in mistrust as I doused my hands with a stoneware bottle of diluted vinegar over a basin. “We use diluted alcohol for treatment on wounds directly, though.” I offered her the bottle, and she shook her head, putting her hands behind her.

 

“It’s alright, I shall not be touching anyone,” she insisted.

 

I sighed, irritated. “You must clean them regardless. You may touch other things and thus spread disease as well.” I kept pushing until Malva reluctantly put her hands in the basin and I poured the vinegar solution on them.

 

“It smells.” Malva wrinkled her nose in distaste.

 

“Not for long. You get used to it,” I encouraged. “Better not let Mère Hildegarde catch you with filthy hands. You’ll never hear the end of it if you do.”

 

A commotion at the doors had us turning, and I glimpsed a sturdy man aided by three others—dockworkers by the look of them—holding up an inert body, facedown. The tousled red waves of hair hung limply towards the ground, and he groaned with every jostling step.

 

Jamie.


	5. Chapter 5

“What happened?” I cried out, directing the men to the nearest empty pallet on the ground. They laid him down gently, Jamie grunting in discomfort. I reached him and then took a step back, hand to my mouth in disbelief.

 

His back was flayed. Welts of open flesh mingled with semi-clotted blood, oozing and crusted at once. It looked a terrible mess. His shirt had been ripped down the middle. I knelt beside Jamie and my hands hesitated above his body, unsure of where to begin. He groaned, and I settled for smoothing his hair back, as I had once when he was a child.

 

The stout bearded man who seemed to command the rest of the men stepped forward. “ _Soeur,_ _s’il vous-plaît—il est mon neveu_. James Fraser. I am Jared Fraser. Are you Claire?”

 

“Yes, I am,” I replied, startled. “Your nephew and I, we are somewhat acquainted.” I waved to Malva, who was trying to hide in the shadows of the heavy pillars. “I’m not a nun, though monsieur. Answer me, please, so that I may help—what happened to him?”

 

“The city guard. His penalty was 100 lashes.” His voice shook and Malva finally stepped up beside me.

 

“Why would he be whipped? What did he do?” I peeled what remained of Jamie’s shirt carefully off his back, trying not to cause him pain. Parts of the cloth had become adhered to his skin. “Malva, please find Sister Minèrve. Ask her for boiled bandages, washcloths, and crushed garlic cloves. Warm water. Diluted alcohol and laudanum. Quickly now.” I turned to Jared Fraser and raised an eyebrow inquiringly.

 

“He… it was self-defense. Stupid boy.” Jared pulled at his face in distress. “There is a younger boy called Fergus. He is Jamie’s friend. He lives in a brothel—well, that’s another story. Jamie caught Fergus being… abused… in a back alley. With the noise from the streets, it seemed no one had heard the boy’s cries. Jamie hurt him. The abuser, I mean.”

 

A whisper of a voice came from beneath my hands. “I stabbed the bastard.” It was Jamie.

 

“Oh.” I didn’t know what else to say. Malva returned briskly and handed me the supplies I needed. “Hold his hand,” I suggested to Malva. Jared Fraser, the uncle, still stood there in awe, watching me unroll the bandages with a practiced hand and pick up a basin filled with garlic. “For cleaning, monsieur. Now, you hold him down please.”

 

Malva and Jared knelt beside me, each to their appointed task. Malva stared at Jamie’s face, unable to take her eyes off him. She squeezed his hand. “This will hurt,” I said to Jamie, who only nodded slightly. With brutal efficiency, I poured the water on his back, followed by the diluted alcohol. Jamie bellowed, seeming to regain his strength with the pain. Jared held him down as Jamie tried to buck off the pallet. Malva’s face grew pale as I staunched the blood with a clean washcloth and layered crushed garlic on the mangled skin.

 

“I’m sorry,” I said softly to Jamie, who had subsided and was breathing hard like a bull. His uncle patted him gently, eyes closed. Malva hadn’t let go of Jamie’s hand. I bandaged his back loosely, just enough to keep dirt and flies off it, not tight enough that it would suppurate and cause corruption in the wounded flesh. I stood, knees protesting, and went to the fountain to fill a pottery cup with cool clean water. I mixed in a dollop of laudanum to help ease Jamie’s pain.

 

“Here, drink this.” I held the cup to his mouth, trying not to dribble the liquid down his chin. It was difficult, given his prone position, but Jamie managed to lift his head and swallow. His eyelids fluttered closed, and I gestured for Jared to let go. He did, shakily rising, but Malva remained next to Jamie.

 

“Monsieur Fraser, you might as well go home now and come back tomorrow. He will sleep and rest now. We will care for him.” I led him to the doors, where the dock workers were waiting.

 

Jared nodded. “Very well, mistress. I thank you for your help.” He pulled out a purse full of coins and proceeded to distribute some of them among the workers. “Should you have need of me, my offices are by the wharf.”

 

“I’ll send for you, monsieur.”

 

“You know, it is strange, but when the guard released Jamie, all he could say was ‘Claire’ and ‘l’hôpital’. That’s why we brought him here. To you.”

 

* * *

 

I wandered the cold corridors of the hospital late at night. I couldn’t sleep; images of Jamie’s wounds flashed behind my closed eyelids, all the torn and ravaged flesh. He would bear the scars of the flogging for life. I wondered if perhaps aloe might diminish the marks. Wrapping my wool shawl more tightly around me, I found myself in the main room. It was lit by lanterns high on the walls. Naturally, I gravitated towards the subject of my thoughts.

 

He was fast asleep, aided by the pain and the laudanum. Jamie’s hand was twitching slightly. It looked like he was dreaming. I crouched, touching his hand softly, and he immediately subsided; his breathing was slow and regular. I couldn’t resist any longer—I ran my fingers gently through his red curls. Jamie’s lips turned up briefly in a smile, his chiseled jaw thrown into relief by the lanterns.

 

“Why are you here?”

 

I pulled my hand away, startled. The shawl dropped from my shoulders and I lifted my head to see Malva standing between two pillars. “I’m making sure he’s resting,” I said defensively. “He is under my care, after all.”

 

“Is there no sister to do that? At this hour?” She stepped closer, ducking down to my level.

 

“Yes, it’s Sister Angelique’s shift, but they are all attending matins. I wasn’t sleeping anyway so I thought I’d come down and see to him myself.”

 

“Oh.” We each remained next to Jamie, locked in a silent battle of wills that I could not begin to understand. Something about Malva made me reluctant to leave Jamie alone with her. I made a pretext of tugging on the bandages and tucking a blanket snugly around Jamie’s hips. The mere weight of the un-dyed wool would be unbearable on his back.

 

“Shall we go to bed?” I suggested. We would have to be up in a few hours again to start the day.

 

“We should.” Malva did not take her eyes off Jamie. “He’s very handsome, is he not?”

 

I felt my ears turn pink and hot. “I suppose.”

 

“You said you were acquainted. When did you meet?”

 

“A few days ago,” I answered, surprised. “We ran into each other outside Maître Raymond’s shop. Quite literally. I might still have the bump on the head to prove it.”

 

She nodded silently. We each spared a final glance at Jamie’s sleeping form before retiring. He would not wake up until much later, I knew; and he would be in immense pain once the laudanum wore off.

 

“Claire?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Do you think maybe I could tend to Monsieur Fraser tomorrow? It would be useful practice for me.”

 

I hesitated outside the door to my cell with my hand on the latch. “I don’t know, Malva. It’s rather a serious injury. I believe I should see to his treatment. Perhaps you could help Madame Bonheur tomorrow.”

 

“Why don’t you?” Malva asked irritably. “We’re both apprentices, _non_?”

 

“I already know how to deliver children. You don’t,” I said firmly.

 

She huffed. “Alright. But if Madame Bonheur has no need of me—”

 

“Then we will see. Good night, Malva.” I stepped inside my cell and shut the door. But I put my ear against it to make sure that she did not walk back to the hospital floor. Back to Jamie.


	6. Chapter 6

“I’m so sorry.” 

“Nae worries, lass. I’ve been hurt before, and by people much less pretty.” Jamie gritted his teeth as I spread aloe on the welts on his back. I saw his hand grip the thin pallet on which he lay, and tried to work faster. 

“Your uncle sent word he was coming today,” I said conversationally, trying to distract him.

“Oh, aye? Was he very angry when he brought me? I canna remember much.” Jamie panted with the effort of not crying out; it put me in mind of the brave boy who did not want others to see him cry over his mother’s death.

“He was very much concerned, not angry. He did say you… stabbed a man. Hence the lashes.”

“But the man survived, more’s the pity. Stabbing was too good for him. I should have broken his neck. _Merde_!”

“Sorry!” I placed fresh, boiled bandages on his back as quickly as possible. I saw his face flush, but felt a tremor quiver through him. The air in the hospital was chilly enough, but his color was high. Oh no. “Monsieur… Jamie… does your head hurt?”

Jamie blinked slowly at me, surprised at the turn of conversation. “Aye, lass, how did ye ken?”

“I’m afraid your wounds—the wounds are causing a fever.” They were not suppurating or corrupted, but the damage was extensive. His body was fighting _something_. “I shall fetch some willow bark tea, and cold compresses. Try to rest.” I rose but his hand caught mine.

“Thank ye, Sassenach.” Jamie’s skin was burning. _Merde_.

I sat with him all morning. I noticed Malva once, peeking into the room, but she did not approach. I ignored her, focused on bringing down Jamie’s fever. He was tired of lying on his stomach, so he begged me to let him rest on his side. He lay curled like a snail, shivering and sweltering by turns under the thin blanket.

Late in the afternoon, Jamie took a turn for the worse. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and I wiped it away with a cool cloth. I applied every febrifuge known to me. I did not want to leave him, but eventually Sister Madeleine bade me go to the refectory and eat. I returned by vespers to relieve her and saw Malva with him.

“Sassenach…” Jamie was whispering.

“He keeps saying that,” said Malva, confused. She held a cup and spoon in her hands, and realized she had gotten her way about nursing him. I felt fiercely protective of Jamie, and took them from her.

“He calls me that. It means outlander.” I sat beside Jamie once more, and sniffed the cup. “Aconite? It may be too strong a physic!”

“Sister Madeleine said he needed it. For the chills,” she said defensively.

Jamie kept talking, head turning from side to side in an attempt to relieve the fever. “ _A leannan, fuireach_ …” I had no Gaidhlig, despite time spent in the Highlands; I didn’t know what he said.

“Fetch some water, Malva, please,” I ordered. She scurried away, and I held Jamie’s hand in my own. His skin was dry and hot. I held his head in my lap to help him drink some water. Malva hovered, fussing with the blanket. I was suddenly inspired by an idea. “I believe he would rest easier if family were here. Would you go to the docks, and ask for Monsieur Jared Fraser?”

“But I—“

“It would greatly help him, Malva. Please.” I set my face to look as pleasant and earnest as possible; Maman had always told me it was an open book, and I didn’t want Malva to know how much I desperately wanted to send her away for awhile.

She left with a whirl, knocking over the cup of aconite. She didn’t look back and I didn’t bother to pick it up; it would mean setting Jamie down and at the moment, he was gripping my skirts tightly. I ran my fingers through his damp red curls, trying to offer comfort. Jamie sighed briefly and nestled against me. I felt tenderness well inside me, and an odd prickle of guilt. I glanced around, but the sisters who were there paid no attention.

I sat, immovable, the hard stone digging into my knees. I wouldn’t budge for the world. Jamie was still feverish, but seemed to be resting better. After some time, I heard Malva and Jared Fraser. I eased Jamie back onto the pallet, laying his head gently on the thin buckwheat pillow.

He started a bit. “ _Nighean bhreagha_ , _fuireach!_ ” Jamie was trying to shout, but his throat was parched; he managed no more than a hoarse call. I looked helplessly to Jared, whose sharp gaze fell on me.

“He’s fevered from the wounds. We’re doing all we can, monsieur,” I said softly.

Jared nodded. “May I sit with him? You look like you need some rest, mademoiselle.” I accepted and stood, legs shrieking in protest after being in a single position for so long. I instructed Jared to give him small sips of water to keep him hydrated. I gestured for Malva to follow me to allow Jamie some time with his uncle.

“Monsieur?” I hesitated, turning from her to address Jared. “What does _a leannan_ mean?”

He was surprised. “It means ‘darling’, or ‘sweetheart.” I blushed deeply, and it didn’t escape Malva’s notice. She looked livid.

“And _nighean bhreagha_? _Fuireach_?” I pressed.

Now Jamie’s uncle was amused. “Beautiful girl. Stay.”


	7. Chapter 7

Jamie’s fever broke around noon the next day. He was still very weak; he couldn’t even bear the weight of his own shirt on the raw wounds on his back. His breeches were soaked in sweat and I asked Sister Madeleine to change him into hospital-issue trousers. Even though I’d treated many men before and seen them in all sorts of dishabille, there was something different about Jamie. I certainly did not trust Malva to change his clothing, either.

After the blessed sister had removed his sweaty clothing and wiped him down with a cool cloth, I perched near Jamie again, with a bowl of mashed bread and milk to feed him. He didn’t take kindly to this fare.

“Sassenach, is there any parritch?” Jamie’s voice was whisper-thin.

“You can’t have any, I’m sorry.” I was familiar with the traditional Scottish dish. “Too heavy right now for your stomach, after the fever. Perhaps some broth later today.” I held the spoon near his mouth, but he waved it away.

“I need real food. This is for weans.”

I smiled patiently. “And for sick patients. If you had anything else, you would vomit. I will not clean it up.”

Jamie grumbled and complained, but ate half the bowl. Even the simple act of being fed exhausted him. I swabbed some diluted honey over the gashes, but decided that he could do without the bandages for now—and let the honey do its work. I wiped my hands clean on my apron, and picked up the supplies. I trailed my fingers across Jamie’s cheek gently, and suddenly realized what I had done. He was not asleep this time. I pulled my hand back as though scorched, and Jamie managed to blush.

“Thank ye, Claire. You’re a braw lass.” Unable to reach my own hand, he settled for patting the top of my boot.

“I do think your uncle Jared might come today. He was with you yesterday, while you were fevered,” I said, flustered. “I must go help assist the midwives. Will you be alright?”

“Och, aye. Dinna fash about me, Sassenach. But… if ye’re able… might ye come keep me company tonight? Just fer a bit. It might get lonesome, since I canna turn about and talk to anybody here.” Jamie’s tone was shy, and I broke into a smile.

“Of course. It would be my pleasure. Try to rest. It will speed your healing.”

“Again, thank ye.” With a little sigh, he laid his head on the pillow and closed his bright blue eyes.

I had been neglecting my duties as midwife for the last several days, tending to Jamie instead. Since I was not off being lazy or irresponsible but caring for a sick man, I knew the sisters and Madame Bonheur would say nothing to rebuke me; but still, I could not forget the real reason why I was at l’hôpital.

To get Jamie off my mind for a while (and the rising heat in my neck and face whenever I remembered the unconscious caress I had given him) I assisted Monsieur Forez alongside Sister Celeste. We delivered a breech baby from a mother who had labored for over 72 hours in dire pain. Miraculously, both survived. Maman and I had encountered this challenge only a few times in many years, but mothers usually died. I was eager to learn Monsieur Forez’s technique for delivering breech babies.

That evening, I returned to the hospital main room after a quick sponge bath. I was loath to have Jamie see me covered in bodily fluids. I was eager to talk to him, to tell him the secrets of childbirth I had learned that day. My shoes tapped softly on the stone floor and candles flickered in their sconces. They illuminated Malva sitting next to Jamie. My heart fell to the vicinity of my stomach.

She held his hand in her lap, tickling the back of it with the tip of a finger. He conversed with her easily enough, and she laughed prettily and threw her head back as though she had never heard anything wittier in her whole life. Jamie smiled to see it. I stood fixed to the spot, watching them, unable to intervene. Something foreign roiled in my gut, threatening to rise and spew from my mouth like bile.

 _Jealousy_.

But why? I shook my head, trying to rid myself of the prickling heat climbing up my spine. James Fraser should be nothing to me, nothing but a mere acquaintance and a patient, no less. A relative to the powerful MacKenzie clan, he could have nothing to do with a penniless, orphan girl like myself. It became clear that Malva was also possessive of Jamie, attracted to him like I was. The only consolation—a petty one, of course—was that Malva could not have him, either.

This had not been planned or accounted for. The feelings sprouting inside me could not be allowed to take root; I had to rip them out like a pernicious weed, before I could hurt him. It was already too late for me.

My body heaved a sigh. Mind over heart, I told myself sternly. I ignored the heaviness that settled on my shoulders. I stepped back and slipped away quietly amongst the stone pillars, leaving Malva and Jamie to the twilight hours.


	8. Chapter 8

With a sure, efficient hand, I applied more honey to Jamie’s injuries. Two hospital orderlies had helped him stand for the first time in days, leading him onto a sturdy trestle table where I could have better access to his wounds. I was uncharacteristically silent, replying only to his Scottish burred, “Good morning.”

Jamie winced as I prodded gently at an open sore. “This hasn’t closed, still. I think I shall have to stitch it. Is that alright?”

“Whatever ye feel is best, Sassenach.” His voice was subdued as well, his tone somber, and he didn’t even flinch as I poked the needle through his ravaged skin. I snipped the catgut sutures and daubed more honey onto the wound.

“There. I’m done here—I’ll have Jean and Hubert take you back to rest.”

“I missed ye last night.”

And there it was.

I swallowed and closed my eyes and my heart. “I was busy. I have other duties to perform. I apologize.”

“An apology is no necessary. I just wondered is all. I was worrit.”

“But you weren’t alone,” I said softly while avoiding his gaze. _Jesu_ , I had told myself not to mention Malva’s presence. I busied my hands with my instruments and calling the aides over to help him.

Jamie looked taken aback. “The grey-eyed lass ye mean? Malva? Aye, she was with me for a bit. We talked. Nothing more.”

“I am sorry I brought it up; you don’t need to offer any explanations. ‘Tis none of my business who you spend time with, and I’m sure you are bored, spending all your time lying down.”

Hubert, stocky but strong, eased Jamie’s legs off the table while Jean gripped his muscled forearms to bring him to his feet. He shook a bit with the effort and I couldn’t help an appreciative glance at his honed warrior’s body. This was _not_ helping my resolve at all.

“Sister Minèrve will bring you some broth later—”

“Mistress, how did I offend ye?” Jamie asked softly, a fingertip lingering on my arm.

“You do not offend, Monsieur Fraser. It has become clear to me that I must focus on my work here, not… personal matters.” I cursed my glass face; I could see plain as day Jamie Fraser was aware of what I meant by “personal matters”.

“It is personal. Verra much so.” He traced patterns on my arm, like Malva had done for him before. Jean and Hubert looked away discreetly, witnesses to the breaking of my heart.

I pulled away. “A man like you will easily able to find a girl more suitable than me,” I said coldly, averting my gaze. He would have instantly divined the truth behind my eyes.

“Suitable?” he asked, puzzled. “Do ye think am I promised to someone else? I can assure ye—”

“I can assure _you_ , monsieur, that my training takes precedence over everything. If you will excuse me, please.” I left quickly, not pausing, not thinking, not feeling.

But that was a lie. 

* * *

“A novice?” Mother Hildegarde blinked, surveying me over her round spectacles.

I twisted the apron on my lap nervously. “Yes, _ma mère_ , it is my wish to take vows someday.”

“Claire, _chère_ , you do not mean this,” she said sternly.

“But I do.” I looked down. “In my time here with you and the _soeurs_ , I have come to greatly admire the work that is done here, and I feel that my soul would be comforted by pledging myself to God and his church.”

“We appreciate that, but I do not feel that religious life is your calling.”

“Healing is my calling. I can also serve God in this way,” I said stubbornly.

“You already do.” Mother Hildegarde smiled. “There is no need for you to take a vow.” She tucked her hands inside her habit and walked around her desk, contemplative. “Is it what your mother would have wanted?”

I paused. “Maman would want me to be safe.”

“Ah.” Mère Hildegarde sat in the empty chair across from mine. I felt her penetrating eyes strip me bare, able to look inside my soul and reveal my deepest secrets. “It is safety you seek then. An escape, perhaps.”

“ _Ma mère_ , I…” There was no defense left. “Where else can I go?”

“Why would you wish to leave? Your training is not complete.”

“The man I have been tending to, James Fraser,” I began desperately. “I am afraid he wants—no, _I_ want. I fear I should want _him_.” I hung my head in shame, unable to face Mother Hildegarde.

She regarded me carefully, choosing her words. “Is he married? Betrothed? Are you?”

“No, he is not. Neither am I.” I breathed deeply. “I knew his family, a long time ago. Attended his mother in childbirth, and her funeral. He has wealthy and powerful relatives. I have no one. Surely I am not meant for him.”

“So you thought that a novitiate was an easier escape than admitting your feelings for this young man.” Mother Hildegarde shook her head. “These walls were not meant to shut out problems. You have to face them. You have to live the life you were born to live.”

“What life is that?” I asked, resigned.

“Midwife, healer, wife, mother… only God knows. It is my belief that you would be terribly unhappy as a nun. This life, my child, it is not for you. You have a gift for healing, it is true. But I see your spirit, and it is not well-suited for a fate like mine. Trust me. I would see you happy, Claire, _chérie_. But not like this.”


	9. Chapter 9

I lay awake all night, wrestling with the gnawing doubt and the longing in my heart. I tossed and turned, and gave up sleep around dawn. I also gave up any pretense that I did not want Jamie, very much. His smile, his demeanor, everything was so different from other men I knew. There was kindness, there was warmth, and most surprisingly perhaps—a genuine interest to know _me_ , my thoughts, my past, who Claire was.

No, Mother Hildegarde was right. I could not make a happy nun. Would Maman wish me to pursue my feelings, to accept this attraction, to hope, to love? My heart beat queerly at this unexpected consideration. Did I love James Fraser? Could he love me?

I watched the sun rise through the bars of my cell window. It touched the green herbs in the garden; everything else was dying in the autumn chill, waiting for spring to be reborn. But I did not have to wait that long. In the dim, I dressed, a new resolve within me, and I yielded to the sudden joy that burst in my chest, and I accepted this feeling in my heart with all my soul.

Autumn sunshine also steeped the hospital corridors, crisp air imbuing the space with cleanliness. I took a deep breath as I walked into the sick bay. I was determined to apologize, subtly let him know that I shared his regard, and see where that led us. I turned to corner towards Jamie’s pallet.

Malva was there again.

She was helping him sit up, and I saw him wince as her motions accidentally pulled at the stitches I had set the day before. Malva wasn’t a poor healer, but she tended to be forgetful or careless. I wasn’t having it, not where Jamie was concerned.

“Mademoiselle Christie!” I called out, fixing a fake cheery smile on my face. “Sister Minèrve has need of you. She is in the apothecary stores.” The room where we dried, set, and prepared various herbal remedies was located on the other side of l’hôpital, across the small graveyard, through the convent. It would probably take her ten minutes to get there, and then some more to return. The lie was inconsequential; I knew the sister could always use help preparing cures and tonics.

Malva stood, red creeping up her neck and face. “Why can _you_ not assist Sister Minèrve? I will attend to Jamie.”

I spared a glance at the man in question; he looked at me in confusion at my sudden turnabout. I gave him a brief smile, letting it touch my eyes, and Jamie visibly relaxed.

“Monsieur Fraser,” I emphasized his formal title, “has had enough of your attentions, I believe. Please do as you are told, child. And wash your hands. This is not the Hôtel Dieu.” Flushed with anger at my dismissal, she stomped off towards the door. I did not care for her belligerent attitude, and made a mental note to speak to Madame Bonheur. I did not wish to get her in trouble, but perhaps a serious talking-to would help her adjust—and acknowledge my seniority.

After Malva was gone, I sat beside him, finally able to look Jamie in the eye instead of having him lie down. “I did not mean to be so rude. Yesterday. When you, um—” I flailed my hands uselessly.

Jamie reached out and took one of my hands in his own, steady and reassuring. “Mistress, dinna worry. I ken ye are otherwise occupied, and I am not yer only responsibility, and it was terribly selfish to demand so much of yer time.”

“Oh, not at all!” I blushed. “I… very much enjoy your company. Please, call me Claire. Or Sassenach. I know you were trying to be friendly, and I… would like to be your friend.” _Perhaps more._

“Alright, lass,” Jamie smiled. “A fresh start. Do ye think we have time before Miss Christie returns?” A teasing twinkle in his eye told me he knew perfectly well I had sent her away on purpose. The use of _Miss Christie_ instead of her name was meant to indicate he was not so close to her as I had feared.

“We have time to talk,” I agreed, settling in as comfortably as I could on the hard stone floor. “Let us begin with… well, I would like to know about your family.”

Jamie’s eyes lit up. “How many generations back?”

* * * 

Malva did not return that day. Or the next. She did not approach Jamie or me anymore; I knew she was actively avoiding me, particularly after Madame Bonheur lectured her sternly. I saw her occasionally, nodded to her when our paths crossed, but she turned away from any gesture I made. The _maîtresses sage femme_ wisely kept us apart on a rotating timetable.

Jamie continued to heal quickly; I removed his stitches a week later, after we had spent inordinate amounts of time talking. We discussed anything and everything, from his studies and my apprenticeship to our families, our dreams, our lives.

“It was _la grippe_ ,” I told him quietly. “Influenza. It took her fast.” A tear slipped unheeded down my cheek. Jamie dashed it away.

“Ye could not have known, _a_ _leannan_. I’m sure ye did everything ye could for her.”

“Will it always feel this way, do you think?” I asked him. “I am fine most of the time, and out of nowhere I remember Maman, and it hits my chest like I’ve been struck. It feels like I can’t breathe, like I’ve just lost her…”

“Not always, Sassenach.” Jamie offered me a gentle smile, the ones I treasured best. “We will always miss those we loved and lost. To mourn her is to respect her memory. But grief is not a place to stay, and when ye least expect it, the pain in yer memories will only be love.”

“Love.” I looked down at my hands, suddenly shy and self-conscious. He moved a bit closer and took my hand in his.

“Sometimes ‘tis easier when we touch, no?” Jamie said. We sat unmoving until the awkwardness passed. “Sassenach, might I ask ye something?”

“Of course, Jamie.”

He hesitated. “Is this… usual? What it is between us?”

I shifted. “I couldn’t say Jamie. I cannot pretend to have had vast experience with men—”

“Och, lass, I dinna mean to imply ye did!” He looked alarmed.

“Indeed!” I laughed. “I’ve never been… close to anyone, like I am with you. But if I had to say… then no, Jamie. This feels different. Special.”

“Close, ye say.” Jamie squeezed my hand before letting go and tilting my chin up with a finger. His eyes burned into mine, dropping briefly to my mouth and back. “This close?”

My breath hitched, heart racing. His finger traced my lower lip lightly, seeking permission. I closed my eyes in acquiescence. Jamie’s lips were soft, tentative, pressing gently and unhurried. Warmth bloomed inside me, love and hope and joy triumphant.

We broke apart, and Jamie’s hand caressed my face, as I had once done to him. My amber eyes searched his fathomless blue and found nothing but truth and tenderness. My previous bashfulness was gone, and all I wanted was to taste him again.

“Claire, am I the first man to kiss ye?” Jamie asked.

I bowed my head, an answer in and of itself.

He leaned close once more, brushing his lips against mine in a whisper: “I want to be the last.”


	10. Chapter 10

Jamie was soon discharged from the hospital, and kept up his schooling at the _université_ , but he came by every evening to see me. With Mother Hildegarde’s permission—and blessing, in my eyes—Jamie began courting me openly. He would wait outside until I finished my work and chores. We would walk from one end of Rue de Grenelle to the other until the first stars came out. Jamie would invariably kiss me behind the entrance pillar when we returned to l’hôpital.

Opening my heart to Jamie was not as hard as I had feared. Weeks went by, and Jamie began to talk about constructing a future together; one where we lived in France together and he joined his uncle Jared’s business, or one where we returned to Scotland and he would take his place as laird of Lallybroch. The title was his by birthright, but Jenny, his sister, and her husband Ian had been caring for the estate while he came of age. Jamie always talked of what he would do as laird, but always included me in his plans, about how I could put my skills to use in the neighboring villages. He offered me not only a home and a family, but a purpose—and himself.

“Marriage?”

“Of course I want to marry ye, Sassenach. I would not think to dishonor ye in any way.”

“Is this a real offer, Jamie? Are you asking?” My heart stuttered and beat in double-time at the thought of sharing a life together—that he wanted _me_.

Jamie knelt by the garden door that led to the street, where we usually bid each other goodbye. He took my hands with their worn knit mittens and pressed his lips to them. “Claire Beauchamp, would ye do me the honor of being my wife?”

I stood there, speechless. A bubble of joy rose within my chest, too large to contain.

“Should I ask Mère Hildegarde for yer hand?” Jamie grinned mischievously. I threw my arms around him; the force had him tumbling backwards and both of us on the ground. I nestled my face into his neck, overwhelmed with emotion. He held me tightly and kissed my shoulder. “Is this a yes, Sassenach?”

“Yes! A thousand times yes!” I felt tears trickling down my face. Jamie noticed and leaned back to wipe them away. He cradled my face with something akin to reverence, as though I were holy, leaning in to kiss me. I breathed his scent in, spice and musk and pure _Jamie_.

“I have something for ye.” We sat up, and he reached into his pocket. Jamie pulled out a thin silver band, with an intricate Scotch thistle pattern. “This used to be the key to Lallybroch. I had the blade and bow fashioned into a ring. I wanted ye to have something of myself, of my family. I’m yours, Claire, I have been since the moment we met.

“I ken we’re no wed yet, but I want ye to have it now, a promise of what will be.” He slid the ring onto my right hand finger. “As soon as we are able, I’ll place it on yer other hand, where it belongs. I love ye, _mo nighean donn._ ”

“I love you, James Fraser. I promise, I won’t take it off. Until our wedding day.”

He took the hand with the ring and brushed it with his lips, blue eyes blazing. “Soon, Sassenach. I promise you.”

We sealed our covenant with an ardent kiss, amidst the lavender and mint.

*** * ***

I was floating, my head in the airy clouds of Jamie’s kisses, promises, and our future wedding. I could not stop touching the ring, wondering at its weight and significance. Some sense of practicality also had me wondering if it would interfere with my duties, and thought about wearing it on a chain around my neck instead. But no, I had promised Jamie I would not remove the ring until he took it off himself to place on my left hand. I would just have to wear it with care.

The next morning, I went into the apothecary to prepare a remedy for headaches. I was grinding willow tree bark in the mortar when I felt a presence behind me. Neck prickling, I turned to find Malva staring at me. Her eyes slid down, resting on my right hand. I tensed, gripping the pestle; the ring chinked softly against the porcelain.

“I saw you.”

I swallowed. “Saw what, Malva?”

“You. _Him_. In the garden.” Her eyes hardened. “He asked you to marry him.”

“Yes.” I raised my chin in defiance. “And I accepted.”

“Does Mother Hildegarde know?”

“She knows we care for each other. I mean to speak to her today about my betrothal.” I dragged the heavy mortar with me and prepared willow bark tea for the apothecary stores. When I finished, I turned to Malva again, the ring a stalwart comfort that bolstered my courage.

“So you think you won.” Malva sidled up to me and touched a finger, ever so lightly, on my ring. A frisson of apprehension climbed up my spine.

I stepped away from her. “I didn’t realize it was a competition.”

Her gaze didn’t leave mine in a silent battle of wills; finally, she dropped her grey eyes and turned to leave. Her silence was more ominous than any parting shot she might have taken.

I went about my work with the midwives and in the main hospital room, constantly looking over my shoulder with unease until Jamie arrived that evening.

“Claire.” He greeted me with a brief kiss behind my ear that left my skin tingling. I reciprocated and received a laugh in return – he was ticklish.

“Oh, Jamie.” I told him about Malva and what she’d said, worry crossing my face. Jamie shook his head in dismissal.

“She means to be jealous and nasty about it forbye; if she doesna get over it, at least we’ll be away soon enough where her words canna harm ye.”

“I suppose you’re right.” I sighed. “How soon, exactly?”

“I’d have ye married to me this moment, if I could,” Jamie said. He then lowered his voice as he whispered in my ear, “And _have_ ye tonight, if ye were willing.”

I blushed, Malva soon forgotten.


	11. Chapter 11

“So will you be leaving us for your married life soon, _ma chère_?”

“I do not know exactly when, but yes. I had hoped to finish my training first…” I trailed off. Jamie would probably not refuse this request, but other exigencies might take precedence.

“ _Et pourquoi non_? You are bright, and you came to us with fairly advanced knowledge. Perhaps by the summer, you might finish your apprenticeship.” Mother HIldegarde sat behind her heavy desk. “Surely you could wait until then.”

“Rest assured I will discuss it with Monsieur Fraser—er, Jamie, and let you know as soon as possible.” I touched the ring on my hand reverently, eyes down.

“You are happy, Claire.” It wasn’t a question.

“I am,” I said softly. “We are thinking of returning to Scotland, and perhaps—”

“Mère Hildegarde!” Sister Angelique burst through the door of the abbess’s study, clutching at her wimple and out of breath. I turned, surprised, knowing only an emergency of the highest order would have prompted the sister to interrupt in that fashion.

“Sister, calm yourself! What is the matter?”

“In the women’s rooms… she’s thrashing about in some sort of fit!” Sister Angelique could barely speak. “ _S’il-vous plaît, venez avec moi tout de suite!_ ”

I immediately stood up and followed both of them down the corridor at a sprint, Mother Hildegarde’s speed belying her age. We reached the women’s rooms and stopped short at the sight of an elderly lady laid on a pallet. Her skin was pale and clammy, breaking out in a cold sweat. Her thinning hair was pasted to her skull, and she convulsed spastically. I knelt beside her and turned the woman on her side. She was not vomiting, but her teeth were clenched too tightly to allow anything to pass between them.

“Did her family say anything about what happened before they brought her here?” Mother Hildegarde knelt with me, a cool cloth wiping down the woman’s face.

“ _Mère_ , she was only fatigued and complaining of headache. I gave her willow bark tea, and minutes later she became like this!”

“Where is the tea?”

Sister Angelique produced a bottle. A bottle labeled in my own handwriting, which read _Willow Bark Infusion_. As was customary, I had also signed the label. Mother Hildegarde read it over her pince-nez, and pierced me with her strong gaze.

“Claire, what is in the infusion?”

“Ground willow bark, a bit of honey, and water, nothing more!” I said, aghast.

She uncorked the bottle and sniffed at it; she stared incredulously at it. “It’s belladonna.”

“It can’t be! I prepared and bottled it myself!” I took the bottle from her and smelled it. Mother Hildegarde was right; instead of the mild sweetness of willow bark tea, the acrid scent of belladonna wafted out. It was impossible. If the woman had been dosed with belladonna as if it had been willow bark, it could be fatal.

“Perhaps there was some confusion with the labels. But I cannot believe you would be so careless, Claire.”

I was mortified. I was absolutely sure I had not mixed up the infusions. How could I? I hadn’t prepared belladonna in months! Mother Hildegarde looked extremely disappointed in me. I had been efficient and competent up to now, and in a single moment, her trust in me was spoiled. But there were other matters to attend to.

“Sister Angelique,” I said, turning to the nun. “Please fetch syrup of ipecac. We must purge her of the belladonna.”

I dribbled the brown liquid down the patient’s throat, massaging it to help her swallow. I could only hope it wasn’t too late. I could also see that the bottles used for medicines and tonics were all very much alike, varying in size and shape, but we mostly relied on the labels to discern the contents. Belladonna would look similar, steeped in water it acquired a brownish color that might be mistaken for the willow bark infusion. And if the person who administered it had merely read the label and trusted what it said implicitly…

“Sister Angelique, if I might ask… did you acquire the bottle of willow bark yourself from the stores?” A glimmer of an idea took shape in my mind.

“No, Claire. I asked Malva—she brought it to me.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: graphic delivery / situation.

I nestled my head in the crook of Jamie’s neck. He held me tight while I sobbed with anger and frustration. Malva—that conniving little wench—had switched the labels on purpose and had almost caused an innocent woman’s death. I couldn’t believe her hatred and jealousy ran so deep, far enough that she would do such a thing.

“Mother Hildegarde wants to believe me, but the burden of proof rests on me,” I concluded, after the story came pouring out of me. “She denied it. Malva, she denied everything to my face and even had the gall to tell me I was completely at fault!”

Jamie’s mouth compressed into a thin line. “Ye ken I believe ye, love. There’s no way ye would have been so careless with yer work. I’m sure Mère Hildegarde sees it this way as well. Dinna worry.”

“I don’t know what to do, Jamie.”

“I’d say keep working, _mo nighean donn_. Just keep doin’ the best job ye can and steer clear of Mademoiselle Christie. We know what she’s capable of and ‘tis best ye have nothing more to do with her now.”

I nodded in agreement. My hiccupping sobs subsided eventually and we just held each other in the dim light of dusk. A lingering peace settled in my heart, and with a deep breath I resolved to follow Jamie’s advice. November was upon us, and soon we would spend the Christmas season with Jared, where I would be first introduced to the Fraser family here in Paris.

The thought made me nervous—would they think me enough for Jamie? I was not without education, and a trade, as well as hard-working. I hoped that would make up for an empty purse and no lands or title. I had other things to worry about besides Malva’s petty revenge.

With a tender embrace, Jamie stood and made his goodbyes, with promises to return the next day. He dried the remaining tracks of tears on my face, kissed each cheek in the French fashion and departed. To keep my mind off things, I thought I would spend some more time helping sister Madeleine in the sick room before I went to bed.

The next day, the sisters had their hands full with a small contingent of soldiers fresh off a merchant ship who had developed fevers. It seemed Jared, who dealt in wines, had recommended that the captain send the sick men to us at l’hôpital. It was this state of matters that prompted Mother Hildegarde to assign Malva and me to a woman in the quartier Latin who was in need of our assistance.

“She has been in labor for a day now, but the child refuses to emerge. Take supplies enough for two more days, you may have need of them.” Mother Hildegarde’s voice was final and I knew that I could not change her mind about having Malva and I working together. I couldn’t prove that Malva had switched the labels, but this was as close a reprieve I would receive from the abbess.

The girl was silent, as had been her custom even before the incident with the belladonna, but now it was more than sullen—the silence tugged at the nerves in my spine and made my skin crawl with something akin to fear. I gathered the supplies required and set off with Malva to the quartier.

We found the woman sweating and grunting with the efforts of travail. It was her first child, and the husband left immediately for the nearest alehouse to seek comfort for himself. Her name was Émilie. I immediately applied lavender oil to her enormous belly, and massaged it gently, hoping to stimulate contractions. The baby did not seemed to be turned around, thank God. I bade Malva prepare comfrey and lemongrass tea, with herbs I handed to her myself, and under close scrutiny.

“Please,” Émilie whispered. Her voice was frail and weakened. I leaned my ear close to her lips. “The knots.”

I was familiar with her request. It was superstition, but one that was easy to accommodate. Again, I had Malva untie any knots she could find in the house, from knitting, sacks, an old pair of stays, kitchen twine. Before Émilie could ask, I fetched a small paring knife and placed it under the bed—to cut the pain.

As we soothed and gave the woman water, I allowed my mind to drift briefly to Jamie. The hours went by; I knew that when he stopped by the hospital, the sisters would tell him where I was. I wouldn’t see him that day, and though I was disappointed, the work I was doing as midwife was important—it could mean the difference between life and death for Émilie.

“We should sleep by turns,” I told Malva, as midnight approached and still no sign of the baby. Émilie was almost fully dilated, and had had her bloody show, and still she suffered. We would be there all night. Malva lay by the fire, her back to us. I decided to have Émilie chew some rosemary to stimulate more contractions. Although it should have been my turn to sleep in a few hours, I was reluctant to wake Malva and have her take over. I did not trust her at all. Instead, I brewed chicory coffee and kept myself awake imagining Jamie’s and my life in Scotland. Traces of lavender oil gleamed on the surface of my ring, and I lost myself in its luminosity.

It was the wee sma’s when I was brought out of my reverie picturing the small shed I would have Jamie build for drying out and preparing herbs when Émilie let out a yell, and some blood spurted out of her. I shook Malva awake—as predicted, she hadn’t awakened at all during the night.

I peered between Émilie’s legs and finally, blessedly, the child’s head was crowning. The skin around it stretched bright red and tight, Émilie panting and screaming by turns. Malva helped Émilie off the bed and onto the birthing stool. She held her up by her underarms as Émilie crouched, her body moving instinctively. I caught the baby as it slid out, a surprisingly chubby baby girl. Malva snipped the cord and cleaned the baby, rubbing at it roughly with coarse linen towels.

I had Émilie lie gingerly back on the bed, my heartbeat racing with relief and excitement. Everything seemed alright, mother and child doing well despite the prolonged delivery. Malva handed the baby to Émilie, who seemed prone to nodding off even though she held on tightly to the girl. Everyone was exhausted, mother most of all.

“Where is her husband?” Malva asked. She went about the business of cleaning up while I waited for the afterbirth.

“Still at the alehouse, I suppose,” I answered shortly. “He must be blind drunk by now.” It wasn’t rare for men to do so, particularly when it was their first child. “He’ll find his way back. She needs rest.” My tone was curt and final, having no desire to engage in conversation with her.

The bells of Saint-Sulpice rang noon, and still no afterbirth. This was bad. The bit of cord protruding from the mother’s body was shriveled and whitish, but expelling the afterbirth should not have taken this long. Émilie was feverish, and Malva had taken the child from her lest it be dropped. Her husband was still nowhere to be found and I debated leaving Malva here or have her go and find him, and perhaps Madame Bonheur as well. I was spared the decision when frantic knocking startled us, and I went to open the door.

But it was not Émilie’s husband, it was her elderly neighbor. She inquired after Émilie, and I told her that she had given birth to a beautiful _fille_. I heard rustling from the bed and a brief grunt of pain. I turned in time to see Malva’s hand wrist deep inside Émilie’s birth canal and yank hard at the bit of cord still protruding from her body.

Before I could so much as move, dumbstruck with horror at what I had just witnessed, Malva had ripped out the afterbirth, in a stream of blood that immediately soaked the bed.

I shut the door in the neighbor’s face and raced to Émilie’s side. Malva had laid the child next to her, but seemed unharmed. I stuffed wads of linen between Émilie’s legs and massaged the spot on Émilie’s abdomen underneath which the womb was located. I worked frantically to stop the bleeding, tears streaming down my face.

“Why!” I screamed at her, my own hands covered in blood. “Why did you _do_ that?”

Malva only stood there, the slick maroon afterbirth dangling from her hands. I could see bits of tissue adhered to the placenta, parts of internal organs that had caused the bleeding when ripped away. She was transfixed, staring at Émilie’s inert form, who was becoming paler by the minute as blood flowed interminably—her life pouring out her. I received no answer.

I dropped my head to Émilie’s chest, listening for her heart. It was faint, slowing down, and all I could do was watch helplessly as her life was extinguished beneath my hands.

As though sensing it, the baby girl started to wail, seeking her mother’s warmth and milk, rootling around the bed sheets. Still crying, I picked her up, cradling her gently until she quieted. I could only stare at Malva, until she turned to me and smiled.


	13. Chapter 13

“I told her, _ma mère_ , that it was too early for the afterbirth to come out. But she didn’t listen.” Malva’s voice was quiet and rang with sincerity.

“ _Putain de merde_!” I lunged for her, but Sister Angelique held me back. Tears ran unchecked, white hot anger burning in my throat. There were simply no words for what Malva had done to poor Émilie—and now she wished to lay this at my door.

“Claire!” Mother Hildegarde’s furious tone cut through the raging haze in my head. “You will control yourself.” Even her own face was red and perspiring.

“But she’s lying!”

“Claire…”

“She’s the one who did that! I was speaking to the neighbor when—”

“This neighbor you mention says she saw nothing, you closed the door and she was unable to witness what happened.”

“Claire was impatient after the child was born,” Malva continued, looking at me with a wide, innocent stare. “She was probably too eager to return to her fiancé.”

I would have gouged her eyes out, but the sister tightened her hold on me as though sensing my thoughts. I went limp with fatigue and despair, unable to conjure anything more in my defense. Malva was determined to malign me, and Mother Hildegarde did not seem to know who to believe. It was my word against hers, and after the belladonna incident…

“ _Arrêtez maintenant! Ça suffit._ ” Mother Hildegarde gazed at us imperiously, hands tucked inside her habit. “Both of you are forbidden from even seeing a single patient until I get to the bottom of this mess.” Malva nodded meekly, but I stared at the abbess in disbelief. “A good woman has lost her life, and a child has lost its mother today. It is enough.”

Sister Angelique whispered in my ear, “For what it’s worth, Claire, _chèrie_ , I believe you. I know you would never do anything like this.” But not even her endorsement could give me back what I had lost in Èmilie’s house earlier. I broke free of her grasp and ran out of Mother Hildegarde’s study.

Because of Malva, I was also on the verge of losing everything I had hoped for—my mother’s dying wish, my life’s work, my soul’s purpose. Everything, including Jamie.

* * *

I ran alongside the quay full tilt, dodging sailors and crates all the way. Jared Fraser’s warehouses loomed in front of me. I barreled through the door, under the sign that read _Fraser et Cie_. When I hadn’t found Jamie at the university, I knew this was the only other place he could be.

I surprised Jamie and his uncle in the latter’s study, and both men immediately stood upon my entry. I must have looked wild with anger, because Jared left to pour me a strong dram. He pressed it into my hand and with a soft word to Jamie, left us in the study to talk. I sat down hard on a chair and Jamie bent down next to me.

I swallowed the drink in a single pull, grimacing at the burn in my throat. Jamie murmured Gaelic endearments into my hair, kissing my temple until I was ready to speak.

“She killed her.”

Jamie sucked in a breath, with a whispered, “ _Mo chreach_!” He’d been attempting to teach me some of the Gaidhligh and I knew this to mean something along the lines of _God damn it_ or _my ruin_. The phrase was one of the less colorful ones he had taught me so far.

I recounted Malva’s treachery, my hands a flurry of motion as I remembered my helplessness while Émilie had bled to death. Jamie held me again as the tears burst forth anew, and I told him that Mother Hildegarde had forbidden me to tend to patients at l’hôpital.

“Malva is dangerous, _mo chridhe_. We must get away from her.” Jamie stood from his crouched position beside me and took a letter from his uncle’s desk. He fiddled with it nervously while I gazed up at him. “Colum had died.”

“Oh, Jamie, I am sorry.”

“Thank ye, lass. But that’s not what worries me. Dougal has claimed the title of chieftain of clan MacKenzie. He means to use me as a pawn to gain access to the Fraser lands and holdings. As his heir apparent.”

I knew Dougal had no sons of his own, only daughters. Colum had no issue. Jamie was a MacKenzie on his mother’s side, and owned land through the Fraser line. He had claim to both, and had considerable support from the MacKenzies at Leoch. From what Jamie had said, Dougal was voluble and unstable, unlikely to maintain his seat of power without Jamie’s pledge of fealty. So that meant…

“He bids you return to Scotland?” My hands started shaking.

“Yes, love. As soon as possible.” He took my hands in his and I rose from my seat. He held me in his arms, and called out to his uncle. “Jared, I need yer help. _We_ need yer help.”

“What is it, Jamie?” Jared asked cautiously.

“I’ll need passage on one of your ships, and funds to return to Leoch. Enough for me and my wife.”

I gasped, tilting my head to look at him. “Jamie, we can’t possibly do this now!” My head was spinning.

Jared agreed. “Jamie, just think of what Dougal would say if—”

“I’m no leaving her here!” Jamie exploded. “She’s my fiancée, I made her a promise and I intend to keep it, no matter the cost!”

I had wanted to stay and finish my apprenticeship, but neither could I let Jamie leave for Scotland without me. In a moment, I made up my mind. With Jamie’s summons and Malva at l’hôpital bent on destroying me, our safest choice was Scotland.

“No priest will marry you without having banns published, and that will take weeks, _a bràthar_ ,” Jared insisted.

“We dinna need a priest.” Jamie’s hands cradled my face gently as he placed a kiss on my forehead. “We’ll be handfast.”


	14. Chapter 14

The Seine ran smoothly beneath the Pont Neuf. Jamie and I stood upon it, holding each other’s hands. I was still in my grubby work dress, a homespun cloak on my shoulders to ward off the chill. Jamie was much more handsomely attired, having been provided with a Fraser tartan kilt by his uncle.

Jamie’s uncle had apologized for not being able to procure a suitable dress for me to be wed in, on such short notice. He may not have approved of our hasty union, but he made clear that it had nothing to do with _me_ personally. He had kissed my cheek and embraced me as his niece, and wished us every happiness. He was justifiably worried about our reception at Leoch as a married couple, now for my sake as much as Jamie’s. So with Jared as our witness, we exchanged vows.

“ _Mo nighean donn_ , repeat after me.” Jamie pulled a small _sgian dubh_ from his sporran. He hesitated as he turned my arm to expose my wrist, but I nodded encouragingly. He made a small cut, and proceeded to slit his own skin open. Pressing our wrists together, Jared stepped forward to tie them with strip of linen.

 _Ye are Blood of my Blood, and Bone of my Bone,_  
I give ye my Body, that we Two might be One.  
I give ye my Spirit, 'til our Life shall be Done.

My heart pounded as I said the words that bound us as husband and wife. Jamie’s gaze upon me made me forget my heartache, all my worries and cares. Gently, he untied our wrists. He pulled the silver ring from my right hand and placed it on my left with a kiss on it. “I’m sorry we canna be wed in a church proper. I wanted to do better by ye,” Jamie said softly.

“I love you, James Fraser. That’s all that matters.” He smiled, and laid his hand on my waist, tugging me closer. The wind off the river was cold, whipping our hair across our faces.

“Sassenach.” His voice was guttural with need as he gripped me with restraint. We kissed, our lips cold but our mouths warm, until we forgot where we were. I finally pulled away from him, breathless.

“You’re mine,” I whispered, my arms around his broad shoulders.Our foreheads touched; we breathed each other’s air, oblivious to the world, until Jared cleared his throat and broke through our reverie.

“Jamie, it’s time.”

The three of us made our way back to Jared’s house in his coach. Jamie and I sat in silence next to each other, holding hands. He squeezed my hand gently as I gripped his arm tightly, nerves racing through me.

To make the handfasting valid, like any other marriage, it must be consummated.

I knew the mechanics, of course. Maman had been thorough in her explanations, and as a midwife, there was little I didn’t know about. But the difference between _knowing_ and _doing_ was vast, a chasm I hadn’t thought about crossing—until I met Jamie.

We arrived at Jared’s beautiful house on Rue Tremoulins; I was assisted out of the carriage by Jamie and ushered past a lineup of servants who were waiting for us. The house was just as lovely on the inside, rich with brocades and glinting carved wood. I held onto Jamie’s hand as we trailed up a curved staircase to the family rooms. Jared walked before us and led us to a room just off the dark hallway.

“James…”

“Uncle, dinna fash. ‘Twill be alright.” Jamie took the wavering candelabra Jared had used to light our path. With a pat on the shoulder, Jared went off, and Jamie stepped inside the room, gesturing for me to enter as well.

The flickering candles illuminated the fine furniture and tapestries on the walls. But what occupied my thoughts first and foremost was the large canopied bed. The room was cold, but Jamie set about lighting a fire in the grate. He was skilled with a flint, and soon flames danced merrily and cast a golden glow across our faces.

We had been completely silent, offering small smiles to each other. Now Jamie approached me, rubbing my arms through the cloak.

“Are ye warm enough, _mo nighean donn_?”

“I suppose.” My voice quivered, and I hated myself for it. This was Jamie, my _husband_ , my love. I wanted him, wanted this, so much. He must have noticed how nervous I was because he pulled me closer in an embrace.

“What is it, Claire?” Jamie asked.

“’Tis only… I’ve never…” A blush crept up my neck.

“Och lass, if it helps, I’ve never… either.” Jamie gave me a sheepish smile and a similar flush tinted his cheeks.

“You haven’t?” After Maman’s explanations and what I knew of the nature of men, I hadn’t expected Jamie to have remained a virgin. He was after all, a very attractive male who could probably charm the very birds from the trees. To have him be as inexperienced as me, was a revelation.

“Truly, no. I suppose neither of us kens what we’re doing. I grew up on a farm, and I know _of_ it, of course, but I expect between a woman and a man, ‘tis rather different, no?” Jamie ruffled up the back of his hair self-consciously.

“Aye, I ken,” I replied, imitating his soft Scots burr and making him laugh; some of the tension broke. A knock at the door interrupted us, and the butler who introduced himself as Magnus, laid a tray with supper on a small side table. He let himself out with a bow, and the door clicked shut behind him with a finality that cast a shiver up my back.

“Let’s have a bite, Sassenach. We’ll no be this well-fed on our travels to Scotland.”

Delicately braised meat and vegetables, along with one of Jared’s most superb wines, made up the meal. I managed no more than a few morsels, nerves making my stomach twist. As Jamie poured the last drops of the bottle, they returned in full force.

“Here, Sassenach.” He patted his knee and I slid over to sit on his lap, draining my glass. He put his arms about my waist, fingers tapping out a quiet beat on the whalebone of my stays. “’Tis easier when we touch, no?”

The crackling of the fire was the only sound in the room, except for our breathing. The staccato rhythm of Jamie’s fingers became a caress, and I tried to reciprocate, running my fingers through his red curls.

“I love your hair,” I said nonsensically, admiring the different hues of auburn and roan.

“And I love yours, lass. Like the water in a burn, the way it ruffles down the rocks…” he trailed off, his fingers now on the back of my neck. I leaned in and kissed him, tasting of the sweet wine we had shared.

Jamie returned the kiss enthusiastically, rising from the chair and setting me on my feet. I stood on my toes, striving to reach his mouth. He clasped me to him, hands bunching my dress and shift at my hips.

I broke away from Jamie, gasping for breath. “Perhaps we should go to bed.”

“To bed, or to sleep?” Jamie dropped the fabric of my clothes, also trying to control his breathing.

“Either way, I’m not likely to do it in this dress. Would you…” I placed his hands on my laces, and watched amused as he fumbled trying to untie them. He slipped the cord through the last eyelet, leaving me in my skirt and shift. I kicked off my shoes and stockings, and shimmied out of the skirt, and it lay puddled on the floor at my feet.

I had never been so undressed in front of a man before—and there was still my shift between us. Heat stained my cheeks, and I looked at my feet, embarrassed. Jamie lifted my face with a finger on my chin, and blue met amber.

“Fair’s fair, lass. Help me take off mine as well.”

The kilt and its belt slid down his legs, boots cast aside. Jamie’s shirt reached to mid-thigh, and I could not look away from the way the firelight burnished the curly hair on his thighs to pure gold. It was an odd sight, and although I had seen men completely naked as a healer, those had just been bodies that needed tending. Jamie’s body was a very different thing. Toned with muscle, lithe as a cat, brown in places and milk white in others…

“Before we—I think I should tell ye, the lashes ye healed, they… there are scars on my back.” His voice was shy and hesitant, and I reached out to touch his cheek in encouragement.

In one swift motion, Jamie pulled his shirt over his head. He stood bare before me, his eyes burning intensely. I didn’t dare look down, not quite yet. I trailed my fingertips over the raised bones of his collar, walking around him, touching the roped muscles of his shoulders. The marks on his back rose in ridges, still pink instead of the white of old wounds. Heat coursed through me in flashes of want and need.

Facing Jamie again, he reached over and took the ribbon that held my shift up. He waited until I nodded, and he undid the bow with a tug. The fabric loosened over my shoulders, slipping off. As the material pooled on my feet, I was seconds away from covering myself with my hands and turning away from Jamie, but he sensed it; he removed the pins from my hair so it fell in a mad riot framing my face.

“Ye are so beautiful.” His breathless reassurance made me smile, giving me much-needed confidence, and I stepped closer to him, enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. “I want ye so much I can scarcely breathe.”

“Have you never seen a naked woman before?”

“Yes, but no so close,” Jamie smiled, his eyes raking over me with a hunger matched by my own. “And no one that’s mine.” Hesitantly, he touched my breast, kneading it gently. It was as though I felt his touch somewhere lower, tingling; I reciprocated, his pectorals shifting.

Jamie kissed me, his tongue exploring my mouth. His hands roved all over my skin, leaving fire wherever they went. Finally, he lifted me off my feet, his lips still on mine. He laid me on the bed, where I scooted back until I reached the pillows. Jamie climbed onto the bed, sidling next to me. We lay skin to skin, all wandering caresses. Timidly, I touched below his navel, fingers hesitant. Jamie made a soft noise of encouragement (or possibly excitement) and I felt the tip of his member against my fingertips. I glanced, finally, committing all of his wondrous body to memory. His cock was silky smooth, and very warm. Emboldened by the sounds emanating from Jamie’s mouth, I grasped it fully in my hand.

Jamie showed me how to move my hand, up and down, sometimes twisting slowly. His frenzied pants in my ear, I could not have predicted how much I would enjoy making him feel this way. Eventually he gripped my hand and bade me stop.

“Sassenach, wait.” I immediately released him, pressing the lines of my body urgently against his.

“Now?” I asked, my arms around his back and attempting to pull him on top of me. I trembled at the thought of him inside me, joined like infinity.

“No, _mo chridhe_. Not yet.” Jamie removed my hands from his back and laid them next to my head, our fingers intertwining. He kissed me deeply, thoroughly, and slowly started making his way down my body. He paid attention to my neck, with small nips that elicited sounds I’d never made before. He sucked on my breasts, teasing and licking until my nipples stood out as big as cherries. He released my hands and I immediately tangled them in his curly mop of hair, and Jamie continued his downward trajectory, tickling my ribs until he stopped, grazing my hipbones with his tongue. I squirmed beneath him, my body demanding more with a fierce ache and pulsing between my legs.

“May I touch ye? Here?” Jamie’s fingers grazed the most intimate part of me. My legs seemed to part of their own accord; almost twenty years of propriety were no match for thousands of years of instinct. He slid a finger in slowly, and I could tell I was slick with arousal. He teased and nudged further inside. I heard a low keening sound and then realized it was coming from me.

I put both my hands over my mouth as my back bowed slightly off the bed. Jamie ceased his ministrations and gently pried my hands off my face. “No, Sassenach, I want to hear ye—every sound, every cry, is mine, do ye understand?” His lips on mine swallowed another moan as he parted my thighs further, settling between them. I could feel his hard, swollen member, straining at attention. I ventured another glance downward; I didn’t think _that_ would fit in me.

“Jamie…” I felt his heart pound through his ribcage, beating in unison with mine.

“Tell me if I’m too rough,” he whispered, “or tell me to stop altogether, if ye wish.” He kissed me deeply as he pressed forward, with unerring aim and our bodies joined. I felt a stinging pressure as he advanced, an intruder of sorts that my body resisted. I willed myself to relax, even as Jamie held me close and I felt myself being stretched wide. There was a flash of brief pain and I couldn’t help but whimper a bit. Jamie immediately stopped and soothed me with gentle Gaelic words that I couldn’t understand.

After a moment or two, I pressed my hands to his back as a sign for him to continue, the scars ridged under my fingers. His hips met mine as he buried himself to the hilt, and slowly withdrew, before sliding in again, exquisitely and unhurriedly. I knew this was for my benefit; there was a hidden urgency to his motions, a power held in check, that I imagined would be unleashed once our bodies grew more comfortable with each other.

I met his eyes, and saw nothing in them but tenderness and joy. I trailed my fingernails up his flank, hoping to leave red lines to mark him as mine. Jamie responded by gripping my buttocks and changing the angle of penetration. In an instant I felt a flare of tingling pleasure, despite the discomfort, and again and again, a feeling that slowly increased and I began to understand what all the fuss about lovemaking was about.

“Sassenach… Claire…” Jamie called out my name between breaths. “I… dinna think… I can…”

“Don’t stop,” I said, gripping his backside and striving to get even closer. I felt Jamie shudder, his hips surging against mine as he spilled himself inside me. I watched his face, his eyes screwed shut and mouth agape, until it relaxed and his eyes opened, gazing into mine with love and wonder.

“I’m sorry, _mo nighean donn_.” He kissed my mouth over and over, our legs untangling as he withdrew. His warm hand lay across my stomach. “ _Bha mi a 'smaoineachadh gu robh mo chridhe a' dol a bhriseadh._ ”

“What is that?”

“I said, I thought my heart was going to burst.” Jamie’s hand caressed my face. “Was it alright for ye? Did I hurt ye?”

“No, you didn’t hurt me.” I was somewhat sore, but I supposed that was to be expected for our first time. It wasn’t entirely disagreeable; it was a reminder of what had transpired between us. We were now truly husband and wife.

“I’m sorry ye didn’t—I mean, that I didn’t… well, Sassenach, was it… pleasurable, for ye?”

“A little.” I planted a kiss on his long nose, and held him close. I could feel dampness between my legs, but was too lazy and comfortable to do anything about it. “We’ll just have to practice some more.” I tugged at the eiderdown comforter, wanting to get beneath the covers. After our exertions, the chill of the room had only dissipated slightly with the fire.

Jamie wrapped his arms around me, his body cocooning mine and radiating natural warmth like a small brazier. He brushed my hair aside, placing soft kisses on the nape of my neck. “Tomorrow, Sassenach, we’ll go to l’Hôpital des Anges. I shall speak to Mother Hildegarde, while ye gather yer belongings. I apologize, _mo nighean donn_ , from taking ye away from yer life’s work.”

“I’ll still have it, James Fraser. Wherever you are, that’s were my life will be.” I had not thought I needed to hear it, but having him speak his regrets about upending our previous plans loosened something within, a modicum of peace and reassurance settling in my chest. “About Malva—”

“Dinna be afraid, there’s the two of us now.” Jamie curled his legs behind mine, fitting perfectly like two spoons nestled in a drawer. “I will not let her harm ye, and I live.”

I still worried though, about our imminent journey and how we should be received by his family in Scotland, and about leaving the life I knew behind. But before I realized it, I fell asleep in his arms, lulled by his _Gaidhlig_ whispers and the knowledge that we belonged irrevocably to each other.


	15. Chapter 15

The soreness was still there as I sat gingerly at the dresser, while one of Jared’s maids—Suzette—attempted to tame my hair into a semblance of matronly respectability. Jamie had nuzzled me awake, his mouth trailing kisses down my body and asking with pleading blue eyes for a repeat of the previous night.

_“I ken once is enough to make it binding, but would ye mind verra much…”_

I hadn’t minded.

Dressed in a cheery yellow dress, I thanked Suzette and made my way downstairs where Jamie was waiting for me. He had had to leave earlier to settle his affairs at the university and arrange for our passage out of France. His dazzling smile at the sight of me made me bashful, as he took my hand to help me down the last steps.

“Sassenach, ye look lovely.” His lips grazed my knuckles. “No longer my wee milkweed puff.” I recalled his words when he had tangled his fingers in my hair, the curls wild on the pillow. Desire kindled in my belly, and I remembered that Jamie was now mine to enjoy when I would. We would have that night, and every night after that.

“Suzette tried,” I said ruefully, touching the up-do carefully. “And it was kind of Jared to find me a dress more suitable for meeting your family.”

“I have something else for ye, Claire.” Still in his kilt, Jamie reached into his sporran and drew a small velvet sack. He tilted it and poured its contents into the palm of his hand. Bright pearls interspersed with gold roundels twined in his fingers. “These were my mam’s. I’ve had them since I left Lallybroch. They are meant for my wife, a bride gift.” He stepped behind me and laid the necklace around my neck, fastening it at the nape with a kiss. I touched the cool pearls, the significance of this gesture weighing on me like the ring on my hand. “Do ye like them?”

“They’re beautiful, Jamie. I shall treasure them always.” I turned my head, and caught his mouth. Jamie’s hands rested on the bodice of my dress, but with a sigh he pulled away, mindful of the time.

“Are ye ready then? We canna miss the tide.”

“We sail at noon. I can ask Mother Hildegarde for some seasickness remedies.” I was determined to continue my work as a healer, and Jamie fully supported this. We were going back to l’hôpital to gather my meager belongings; after that we would board a coach courtesy of Jared that would take us the port city of Le Havre. After that, we would be bound for England on another of Jared’s ships. Jamie dreaded this—he had admitted he suffered from crippling seasickness, but there was no other way across the channel.

We gripped hands tightly as we climbed the steps to the hospital entrance. He placed a kiss on my temple once inside, in the vaulted foyer; I could hear the hum and bustle of patients and healers down the stone hallway. We veered away from the main sick room and closer to Mother Hildegarde’s chamber. Jamie planned to thank the abbess and lay down our new plans, as well as leave a small donation to the convent for the keeping of l’hôpital.

Repeated knocks on her door were met with silence. I frowned. “Perhaps she is tending to a patient. Or at the convent. I shall pack my bag and ask one of the sisters where we can find Mère Hildegarde.”

“I will meet ye by the garden door, is that alright?”

“I won’t be long,” I promised. I watched the back of him briefly before turning to the passage leading to the novices’ cells. I stepped into my room, noting the bare plastered walls, the tiny bed, the dust motes floating in the shaft of sunlight from the window. I noticed everything for the last time, before I took my other old dress, a blanket, stockings, and small trinkets that had belonged to Maman from a small chest at the foot of the bed. I folded them inside the same burlap sack I had first brought them in, shutting the lid of the chest with a muted thump. With an air of finality, I bid farewell to the room and left.

Malva was waiting for me in the corridor.

I halted in my tracks, my heart beating hollowly in my chest. Fight or flight? I had no time to waste on the _petite salope_ , and made up my mind to walk past her quickly and hope she did not try to stop me. Malva hadn’t uttered a word or attempted to get close to me. I held the sack in a white-knuckled grip, prepared to use it as a weapon if I had to. I met her eyes with as much steel as I could muster. I brushed against her shoulder when she spoke from behind me.

“I can smell him on you.”

Malva’s voice made my blood run cold. At the same time, white hot anger flared in the pit of my stomach. She had willfully murdered a woman who had done no wrong—nothing but cross Malva’s path in her vendetta against me. I took a deep breath, turned to her, and slapped her with my left hand, forcefully. Her head rocked sideways, with a satisfying crack.

Malva faced me, hand to her cheek. My wedding ring had cut her, blood seeping slowly from the wound. Her grey eyes were pure hatred. She looked haggard and disheveled since the last time I had seen her. Her hands were dirty—something unacceptable in the Hôpital des Anges—and her apron stained.

My voice hissed across the silence in the narrow corridor. “Do not _ever_ speak to me again. Good riddance, you murdering _bitch_.” I backed away, wary of turning my back on her after our confrontation. Malva could only stare, the palm of her hand dotted with blood. I hoped it left a scar. I hoped she would look at it every day and remember what she had done.

“Claire!” Sister Angelique’s voice rebounded from the stone ceiling. She turned the corner and found us, clutching her habit and out of breath. I noticed that Sister Angelique was not her usual impeccable self. Her wimple hung limply, covering half her head. Much like Malva, she had a worn-out expression on her face and had a handkerchief tied around her neck loosely. I recognized it as a face mask, a policy implemented by Mother Hildegarde years ago. The scent of vinegar permeated Sister Angelique, as she looked at me imploringly. “We need your help!”

 

* * *

 

“It’s smallpox.”

I found Jamie at the garden gate, stopping five steps shy of him. Sister Angelique had taken me to the main hospital sick room, filled with pallets of ill Parisians. After donning a face mask of my own, I had looked around me in horror. Many of them were sailors, but others civilians, a red rash covering what could be seen of their face and hands. Some were fevered, others vomiting into nearby clay basins. Sisters Minèrve and Celeste were also infected, lying side by side. And most frightening of all—Mother Hildegarde was among the sick, her broad and sweating form still beneath a woolen blanket.

“Smallpox?” Jamie’s brow furrowed as he tried to come closer. I jumped back and he stared at me in confusion. “What is it, _mo nighean donn_?”

“You—you shouldn’t touch me. I could be carrying the disease.” I swallowed hard. All round us, the garden lay dormant in hues of gray and brown, awaiting spring to bloom again.

“Not touch ye? Lass, we are bound for Scotland in mere hours!” Jamie said pleadingly, his hand outstretched, trying to bridge the gap between us. I clutched my hands inside my cloak tighter, the smell of vinegar steadying and familiar.

“I can’t Jamie. I… we can’t go to Scotland yet. I could make you sick, or the ship’s crew… we cannot risk it.”

Jamie was quiet, considering. “Ye say ‘yet’,” he responded finally, a resigned expression on his face. “When could we go?”

“I’ll need seven days. Then, if I am not ill, we can depart.”

“Seven days? Ye mean to stay, love?”

“Jamie, I am needed here. Mother Hildegarde is also ill.” Tears slipped unheeded, knowing what I must do. “Give me a week, so I can help the sisters. Go to Jared, and wait for me. You may already be infected, but if you are not, in one week we shall go to Scotland as planned. We cannot wait and also risk your uncle Dougal’s wrath.”

“I canna imagine Jared will be well pleased either,” he said with a brief smile. “He has already risked much by helping us.”

“’Tis the sailors who brought the illness here,” I replied with a shiver. “The same sailors Jared recommended come here to be healed spread the smallpox. We did not see what it was.” His look of horror helped steel my resolve. “It is my duty to help, Jamie. Please understand.”

He took a deep breath, resigned. “We can wait seven days. I understand this is who ye are, _mo chridhe_ , and I would not for the world tell ye to be otherwise. But can I not stay here and help ye? Another pair of hands would be useful.”

I shook my head. “I would not risk your health, Jamie, or your life.”

“Ye risk yers, why not mine?”

“I need to know you are waiting for me, and that will be enough to get me through.” I was weeping openly now, fear coursing through me. This could go badly for me, but I had to put my faith in God and Maman’s memory and believe that we would prevail, and we would go to Scotland together.

“Malva, she’s a wicked woman, a murderer—”

“Do not worry. I will steer clear of her, and try to never be alone with her. I will be safe.” I drew a shaky breath. “And… you must promise not to come back to l’hôpital. It is dangerous, you could fall ill. Promise me, Jamie.”

Jamie reached me in three strides, despite me trying to push him away. He held me tightly to him, and I surrendered, gripping the back of his coat as though my life depended on it. “I promise lass, if it means this much to ye,” he whispered. This is what it felt like, to be torn between duty and love, and my heart ached, with the knowledge that I might not see him again.

“Ye will be safe. Ye have my name and my family, my clan, and if necessary, the protection of my body as well.” He kissed my hair, whispering words of comfort. “I will wait, Sorcha.” _Light—_ Claire. “I love ye, dinna forget it.”

I set him firmly away from me. Jamie’s face was white and strained, what I was imagined a mirror image of my own. His eyes filled with yearning. With a final kiss to my hand—the one that wore his ring—he let me go. I made my way out of the garden, walking slightly hunched as though I were in great pain, as someone who knows she must keep moving, but feels her life and soul ebbing slowly away. I dared not turn around.

I prayed for the strength to let him go, if only for a little while, and not fall on my knees and beg him to stay or take me with him. _Let me be brave enough_ , I prayed. Let me love him enough to see him away safe while I committed to my responsibility as a healer.

“Go wi’ God,” Jamie murmured behind me.


	16. Chapter 16

With an aching heart, I set about helping the remaining healthy sisters keep order about the hospital. Without Mother Hildegarde at the helm, morale was low and the situation desperate. There were barely enough supplies to allow us to help the sick, and the garden in wintertime mostly bare of the most essential of herbs and plants.

I changed back into my workaday clothes, folding the yellow dress into the trunk in my cell. I laid the pearls within the skirts with infinite care, a token of Jamie’s love for me. The silver of my wedding ring gleamed on my finger—that, I would keep with me always.

That first day was the hardest. I could not help my mind wandering back to thoughts of Jamie, of our wedding night. When we had said our vows on the bridge, I had not imagined that we might ever be separated again—least of all so soon. I had pictured us traveling together, enjoying a counterfeit honeymoon of sorts, before facing the challenge of the MacKenzies at Castle Leoch. It was also the thought of him that kept me going through that dark night, cleaning up after patients and cooling fevered brows. I did not think I would ever get the smell of vinegar off me.

Malva kept her distance, the cut on her cheek reminding me (and hopefully her) what I was capable of if she interfered once more. She was morose but helpful, carrying basins of water and cleaning soiled pallets and cloths. Laboring tirelessly with other sisters, I had twice the work, checking on those she tended to when she was gone to make sure she was not hurting them. The ravaging effects of smallpox could last up to thirty days but I would not be able to stay that long.

I endeavored to work as far away from her as possible; I remained close to Madame Bonheur and Madame de Ramelle, who had also been called upon to assist our efforts in the hospital. At dawn the next day, Sister Angelique woke me from a light sleep. I had sat in the sick room, too wary to return to my cell with Malva around. I stirred and was immediately alert.

“Yes, Sister?”

“ _Cherchez Maître Raymond_. We have dire need of febrifuges and he may have a store of dried herbs. We are almost all out.” She handed me the woven basket as though this were any other day. “Ask him to come, if he can.” I stopped to clean my hands as I left, and tied on a new face mask as an added measure.

The streets were devoid of people, most citizens aware of the danger of smallpox and staying away from the convent and hospital grounds. Even Jamie had so far kept his promise. The mere thought of my husband again released an ache in my chest. Keeping busy had been the best remedy for the pain of not having him near. How could I know if he was alright?

I felt a vague uneasiness as I made my way onto Rue de Varenne to Monsieur Raymond’s apothecary shop and met no one on the road. I stepped up to the door, surprised when it did not yield as I pushed. There was no merry tinkling bell; the shop was closed. I noticed that one of the windows was smashed, Exasperated, I tugged my mask down, shoving wayward curls out of my face.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, _Madonna_.”

Master Raymond’s voice cut through the air, and I jumped back, startled. He was peeking out from the alley next to the shop, from an old unused door that was usually boarded up. He looked frail and worn, his old joviality muted.

“Maître Raymond! What has happened?” I cried, stepping into the alley.

“People are frantic. The smallpox, it has spread further into the city. Some came to me for aid, others to destroy. _Quel dommage._ ” His tone was that of a man resigned, but I detected a hint of fire behind his words.

“That is precisely why I am here. L’Hôpital des Anges is lacking remedies, we are tending to many of the sick. Monsieur, we have need of your help—”

“I’m afraid I cannot help you much, _Madonna_. When illness strikes, remember it is often the healers who are blamed. I am leaving Paris for a time, child, until everything returns to normal. Here, take these.” He held out a parcel wrapped in cheesecloth.

I unwrapped it briefly, and saw willow bark, dried yarrow, basil, calendula, sassafras, and peppermint. “Thank you, monsieur. Is there anything I can do to help you?”

“ _Rien_ , _ma chère_. I will return. I always do. But if I could—a warning. Beware of the grey. Seek the red man.” Maître Raymond crept back inside the shop, with a final, “ _Adieu_ , Madonna.”

The red man could only be Jamie. But I could not seek him yet, for I could still carry the disease. With his cryptic warning, I hurried back to the hospital. As I crossed through the garden door for faster access, I spotted a bright cluster of hellebore—the winter rose—on the step, tied with blue ribbon the same hue as Jamie’s eyes. I scooped it up and held it to my nose, face buried in the fragrant blooms. I looked around, but could see no one. I smiled for the first time. Hellebore meant tranquility, protection against lies, scandal, or anxiety. I had wished I could get a message to Jamie, but the city was practically quarantined and I would not risk sending someone that could potentially carry smallpox along with my letter. But I should have known better than to think Jamie would be so patient.

The next day, after an intense battle with Monsieur Forez to discourage him from bleeding patients, I ventured outside for fresh air and solace. There was a small bouquet of cheerful purple pansies. I thought perhaps Jamie was raiding Jared’s garden at Rue Tremoulins; I pictured him cutting flowers and making his way to the hospital to leave them at my door. The image lifted my spirits immensely, even as concern mingled equally with joy.

Still clutching my pansies, I went back inside to have a quick meal of bread and cheese and ale in the refectory. Sister Madeleine found me there, saying Mother Hildegarde was asking for me. Leaving the pewter mug and wooden bowl on the table, I rushed to the abbess’s side. She had been quite delirious the past two days, recognizing no one and speaking in her native German. If she was lucid enough to say my name, I thought it was good news.

Grabbing a clean cloth, I dipped it in water and witch hazel, laying it across Mother Hildegarde’s brow. Her face was not yet stippled with the telltale rash of smallpox. “I’m here, _ma mère. Ça va?_ ”

“Claire. What are you doing?” she asked in a rasping voice.

“You asked for me,” I replied, confused. “I am helping the sick.”

“No. You must leave. Your Jamie…”

“He is alright, he understands,” I said soothingly, taking the cloth and dabbing it on Mother Hildegarde’s flushed skin. “He is my husband now.”

A smile flickered on the edges of her mouth. “ _Je suis _heureuse_ d'entendre cela._ ” Quick as a blink, her mood change, and she frowned. “I am also sorry I doubted your word, Claire. I know now you were not guilty of what happened with the belladonna or that poor woman.”

“How did you know?”

“God has shown me the error of my ways. I will join Him soon enough in heaven.” Her breathing wheezed, and a chill overtook her voluminous body. She was sweating profusely; she reached up, tearing at her nun’s veil. As it fell away, it revealed a head of closely cropped, iron grey hair.

“Do not say that, Mother, please. I will not let that happen,” I said, my eyes filling with tears.

“It is for God to decide, not us. I wanted to say… I am glad you came to us. Dear Julia and I will watch over you, do not fear…” Mother Hildegarde’s eyes drifted closed, and she fell into a restless sleep. I glanced up, and met Malva’s gaze.


	17. Chapter 17

Sister Minèrve and Sister Celeste were dead.

Two of the infected sailors had died too, as well as a fair number of citizens. Their bodies had been carted off to be burned on the outskirts of the city. The remaining nuns of the Convent des Anges mourned, held a small funeral mass for their departed sisters in the chapel. I attended out of love and respect for the sisters who had given up their lives in the service of their calling. The rest of us continued to work determinedly to aid the sick. Mother Hildegarde held on, suspended between life and death.

In the midst of all that death I was in life. I continued to eat when I thought of it, snagging bread and cheese from the refectory and mugs of ale. I took the key to Mother Hildegarde’s study from the ring she usually wore at her waist; Sister Madeleine was in charge of it. If she wondered why I wanted it, she brooked no opposition, but trusted me implicitly. I used it to lock myself at night in the abbess’s study to sleep safe from Malva. I even hauled the trunk with my belongings in there. I was sure Mother Hildegarde would understand; if any of the other sisters knew or objected, they did not mention it.

There was no written word from Jamie, but on the fourth day there was another small bouquet, this time forget-me-nots; the fifth day yielded phlox. I laid each cluster of flowers on Mother Hildegarde’s desk, a countdown of sorts until Jamie and I could leave for the safety of Scotland. The sight of the little colorful bundles filled me with delight and strength, a promise of what was to come—seven days.

On the sixth day, I awoke with a headache and mild stomach pains. I had not been sleeping much in the past few days, and eaten even less as our stores dwindled, saving some food for those who were ill. Out through the garden for my customary break, I spied the shadow of feet under the garden door. _Jamie_ , I thought, my heart pounding deliriously with joy. I hurried to the door and pulled the latch, only to find a young boy crouched by the floor, a bouquet of cheery yellow daffodils in his hand.

“Where’s Jamie?” I burst out, disappointed that he was not there.

“Monsieur Fraser? He is… not here,” the boy hesitated in his response, blushing to the roots of his curly mop.

“Why does he send _you_?” I insisted, reaching out for the flowers he still clutched. “He has asked you to leave these here for me?”

“ _Oui, madame. Je m’appelle_ Claudel. Well, that was my name, but Monsieur Fraser insisted on something more Scottish. You can call me Fergus.”

Fergus! The street urchin who was friends with Jamie, whose honor Jamie had defended and earned him the lashes on his back. “Is Jamie alright?”

A Gallic insouciant shrug. “I believe so. Monsieur Fraser has paid me handsomely to bring _les fleurs_ to you, madame.”

“Oh!” I remembered myself, and pulled the mask back on my face, covering nose and mouth. “As much as I needed a remembrance from Jamie, it is still a risk. You should go, please. Tell Jamie I will see him the day after tomorrow, God willing. I will meet him at his uncle’s warehouse.”

“But madame—” Fergus caught himself and blushed. “Monsieur Fraser said that I should bring these to you daily, but that you were not to come to the docks.”

“What do you mean? We agreed on seven—”

It suddenly dawned on me.

Jamie would not have put Fergus at risk. I had not been thinking straight. While he might have christened him Fergus, he would not have disregarded my warning and sent a child merely to place flowers at my door. And flowers, but no letter, no note? My head ached mercilessly. _Monsieur Fraser…_

“Fergus, was it _Jared_ Fraser who paid you to deliver the flowers?”

 

* * *

 

The city was being quarantined. Crude barricades had been stationed at certain points on streets that led to the Hôpital des Anges. I skirted past them, my apron snagging once on a rusty nail protruding from a wooden stake. My heart pounded in time with my head, a pain that had not abated. I ignored it as I ran along the river to find Jamie.

As I neared _Fraser et Cie_., I caught several dockworkers loading casks of wine onto a ship bearing a woman’s name—one of Jared’s mistresses, no doubt. There was not as much activity on the quay, and weak December sunshine pierced my eyes. Slightly blinded, I made my way to Jared’s offices around the back of the warehouse.

I tried the door, but it was locked. I banged on it, desperate, wiping sweat off my forehead between times. The day was quite chilly but the trek from the hospital had me flushed. I beat on the door, hands throbbing, determined to stand there all afternoon if I had to; but finally, I heard fumbling with the latch and the door finally revealed Jared Fraser. He did not appear surprised to see me, but looked warily resigned as he blocked the doorway.

“Where’s Jamie?” I rasped, chest heaving from the effort.

“Lass…”

“He promised not to come to l’hôpital, and I know he didn’t; it was _you_ who sent Fergus instead, he would not have broken a promise—”

“Did Fergus tell ye that?” Jared frowned.

“I figured it out for myself.” I attempted to push past him but he held onto the doorjamb fast. “Jamie would not endanger a child. _You_ are also called Monsieur Fraser.”

Jared sighed. “ _Je n’avais pas le choix._ ” He stepped outside of the offices and closed the door behind him. “You have to understand, Claire. What I did was in his best interest.”

I stared at him in disbelief. “What did you do?” An invisible hand squeezed at my heart, my lungs, robbing me of air. “Jamie! Jamie, I am here!” I called out frantically. I ran at the door, but Jared caught me, clamping his arms around me tightly.

“He is not here, lass. I am sorry.”

“Is he sick?” I whispered in a small voice. An unfathomable thought gripped me. “Is he… dead?”

“I think not. He is on a ship halfway to Scotland.”

My heart broke. It was a small clean sound, like the snapping of a flower’s stem. I felt it with a curious detachment, as though I were watching myself from outside my own body. I heard Jared tell me about forcing Jamie onto a ship—how he fought against the sailors Jared had employed to render him senseless so they could accomplish this. I knew he would not have left me voluntarily.

I slumped against Jared, my strength depleted. My knees gave out, and I pushed him away violently. I did not want to hear any more. He called out to me as I dragged myself away, pulling myself upright with the help of a pylon. In addition to the inconceivable pain in my chest, in the hollow space where my heart used to reside, my head was near to bursting as I headed back to l’hôpital.

I staggered through the streets, feverish and nauseated. My stomach cramped horribly and I had to stop many times along the way to catch my breath. Finally, the hospital doors loomed before me, and I stumbled inside, crying out for Sister Angelique. I collapsed against her, feeling my skin burning and my bowels turn to water. I was stripped down to my shift while chills racked my body. I lay on a pallet, my last coherent thought to the good sister: _Do not let Malva near me._

The healer in me knew—I had contracted smallpox.


	18. Chapter 18

_His head ached something fierce. It felt like the world was rocking sideways, and nausea overtook him. All that sustained him was the thought of_ her _._

_The cloud of her hair in his nose, the vivid green scent of her, her alabaster skin under his hands that single night they had shared._

_Claire…_

Healers do not make good patients. During the first couple of days I tried so hard to rise from my pallet, the nuns pushing me back. _There is work to be done, you need my help,_ I insisted. I had a very high fever, they replied, and was in no condition to even walk, least of all tend the sick. They would manage.

I thrashed on the floor when the burning in my head surpassed coherent thoughts. I sweated through the linen shifts, shivered with chills, and filled the chamber pot constantly. I called out for Maman, for Papa, for Jamie. There were a few heavenly moments when Jamie’s face materialized before me, wrought with unutterable tenderness; he bathed my face with a cool cloth. Then all of a sudden, it became interchangeable with Sister Angelique’s weary countenance. I kept twisting the ring on my finger, a tether to reality.

Through the haze, I learned Mother Hildegarde had survived, and seemed to be on the mend. She was still very weak, and was not up and about but still continued to run the hospital from her sickbed. I, on the other hand, seemed to worsen, although the rash associated with smallpox had not appeared, just like the abbess. My body was wracked with pain; Sister Madeleine fed me basil tea with honey, and apple cider vinegar to combat all my symptoms.

In my most lucid moments, I recognized Malva hovering close, but not daring to approach. I knew Sister Angelique had heeded my warning, and I was rarely left alone. Someone was always near at hand, be it a nun, one of the _maîtresses sage femme_ , or even Monsieur Forez once. But with so many other patients, they could only remain vigilant for so long.

I came to suddenly, dragged from a restless sleep by a wrenching in my gut. I was shivering from the general malaise, and the frigid December wind that whistled through the high windows in the hospital. My fever was rising again. The thin wool blanket was not enough to keep the chill at bay. I could see my breath rise in white puffs. I tried to lift my head, looking for a healer, but I was met with Malva’s grey eyes instead.

“You are still alive, I see.” Her voice was cold, her face impassive. She wound her way around the pallets on the floor, stopping next to me. I wanted to cry out in warning, but my throat was parched, no strength left in me.

I batted my left hand around, ring clinking against the chamber pot. I gripped it as hard as I could and heaved it in Malva’s direction. She yelped and jumped back, but it had been recently emptied; all that was left were shards and the crashing noise I hoped would bring one of the nuns soon.

“Nobody will come,” she said, divining my thoughts. “They are otherwise occupied in the apothecary stores. There was a bit of a mess to clean up. I just wanted to admire my handiwork.”

“You… this is… not because of you,” I rasped. “It… smallpox.”

Malva raised an eyebrow, bemused. “Of course it was me. You left your drinking cup in the refectory. I swabbed it with discharge from another patient. Mother Hildegarde’s, too.”

Discharge… My stomach heaved at the thought, my mind running wild with speculation. Given that I had skipped a few meals before falling ill, it was a wonder that I hadn’t gotten sick before. “Who… did they…”

“Oh yes. The patient died,” she replied with a grin. “Terribly messy end it was.” She kicked the pottery fragments aside, crouching down beside me. “I would like to stay here and watch you die as well, but I think it is time for me to move on.”

“Help.” It was barely above a croak, and I tried to drag myself away from her, but my limbs would not respond. I was fairly weak and thin, muscles wasted from disuse. Malva smirked, and reached out for my hand. Her grey eyes flickered in the lamplight.

“I will just take this before I leave.” She grabbed at my finger, the one with the ring. I made a fist and struck her, but it my touch was like that of a butterfly’s wings against the tiger’s back. Malva laughed outright, but I clutched my fist tight; she tried to pry my fingers apart to pull the ring off, and I tried not to yield. Feverish, perhaps on the brink of death, but for Jamie… for Jamie, I would hold on.

To no avail. Malva wrenched my fingers back and I cried out hoarsely in pain. Finally yanking it off, she held the ring aloft, glinting in the dying candlelight. Her face twisted with anger, derisive and purely wicked. “Will he still love you when you are gone?” she sneered. Her eyes smoldered. _Beware of the grey…_

Malva slipped the ring into her skirt pocket. She stood, contemplating me on my pallet, both of us breathing hard. She shrugged and walked to the fountain. The water at this time of year was freezing. I thought she might wash her hands to avoid contagion from me, but instead she picked up a bucket meant for cleaning. She filled it with the icy water and came back, pouring it over my body from head to toe. I immediately started shaking, the cold biting my skin. If the smallpox didn’t kill me, _la grippe_ or pneumonia might.  

Through the haze, I watched Malva pick her way amongst the sick and dying on the floor. Her outline silhouetted by the moonlight peeking in the doorway, she left without a trace. All the while, my head roared and my body shivered as though my very bones would break—so did my heart, once more, with one last thought before I slipped into darkness.

 _Jamie_.

**End of Part I**


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